


A Potentially Dangerous Impression

by alley_oops



Category: High School Musical, Supernatural
Genre: Complete, Crossover, Gen, M/M, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-01
Updated: 2008-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-22 21:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 55,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2522768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alley_oops/pseuds/alley_oops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>East High has been the scene of suspicious serial murders. It's got to be a job for Sam and Dean, but only one of them can go undercover as a high school student.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Potentially Dangerous Impression

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to my fantabulous beta reader, Zillah, who is the rock salt to my shotgun (and my tequila). This fic occurs circa season 3 of _Supernatural_ , and just after _High School Musical 2_.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with the source material, characters, actors, production, representation, and so forth. I do not actually believe this story occurred, particularly as it's about fictional characters. It's all the work of my lone fangirl mind, and no disrespect is intended.
> 
> Pictures of our major players: [Sam Winchester](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v227/sally_simpson/Jared/jaredpadalecki438aia7.jpg), [Ryan Evans](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v227/sally_simpson/Ajb3cm7l_zps05c7e88d.jpg), [Dean Winchester](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v227/sally_simpson/Dean-Winchester--dean-winchester-69977_600_900_zpsb20808e5.jpg) (just because I'm not slashing you doesn't mean I don't love you, Dean), & [Sharpay Evans](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v227/sally_simpson/1248466930118_f_zps83e26d04.jpg).  
> Part 2 especially inspired by [this pic](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v227/sally_simpson/jaredpad041.jpg). (Poor Ryan, he just never stood a chance.)
> 
> [Alternate ending included for happy-ending suckers like me.]

“This is the stupidest fucking idea you’ve ever had.”

“Jeez, Sam, enough already! I get it, you don’t like the plan.” Exasperated, Dean rolled his eyes and set the parking brake on the Impala.

"No, I mean _ever_ ," Sam insisted. "As in, even stupider than that time you arranged for us to spend a week getting our asses kicked in jail. Remember that? This is _worse_."

"Hey, now, two things," Dean barked, twisting in his seat to meet Sam's glare. "One: that plan worked, remember? We totally smoked that ghost nurse." Pausing, Dean replayed his words in his head. There really hadn't been a darn thing funny about the case at the time, and he himself had damn near gotten killed by the homicidal spirit in question. But now, looking back from the comfortable safety margin of a few years.... "Ghost nurse," Dean muttered, and snorted a laugh. "Dude, that just sounds funny." He caught the furious flare of Sam's nostrils and quickly pulled himself back on track. "And two! Two is that you've had weeks to come up with a better idea than this, and you didn't. So? We go with my plan, and you quit your bitching already."

But Sam just sat there. Not that Dean had expected his brother to suddenly fly into action when he realized the wisdom of Dean's words, or anything. But still, he just sat there. Looking... sulky. "Dude. You're sulking."

"I'm _not_."

"You so totally are! What the hell, Sammy? Anybody looking at you would think we hadn't faced far worse than this," Dean said, trying to switch tactics from bullying to persuasion. "Come on, Sam. Just take a look. No vampires, no werewolves– " Sam's frown deepened, and Dean quickly realized that he shouldn't have mentioned werewolves, "no – no djinns or cannibals or axe-wielding maniacs. Just a stupid bitchy ghost, and not even one of the completely creepy ones that keeps souvenirs. No big deal!" He clapped Sam on the shoulder. "You're looking at that place like it's the seventh circle of hell, man!"

"It _is_ ," Sam growled, and hunched even lower in his seat.

"C'mon, you big baby!" The weight of that furious glare landed smack on Dean, but this time Dean just grinned. "Hey man, don't look at me. I could never go undercover in there, you know that. But you—" he had to laugh. "We'll just say you flunked a few grades. Now get out!" Reaching across him, Dean pushed open the passenger door. "You're going to be late for homeroom!"

"I. Hate. You." But Sam wasn't even looking at him anymore. His tone of voice was pure loathing, but as he looked out at the sprawling brick building, all Dean could read in the set of his shoulders was fear.

All right, maybe just misery.

With a deep sigh of resignation, Sam finally swung his long legs out onto the pavement, and stood up to his full 6'4" height. He turned back and grabbed his backpack, then hauled it onto his shoulder without even a last glare back at Dean. "East High. Home of the Wildcats," he muttered, and rolled his eyes before setting out for the concrete steps which were already teeming with... _high school kids_. And _lots_ of them.

"Hey!" Dean waited until Sam turned back, then he shot him a grin which could match Lilith for pure evil. "Try to blend in!"

* * *

Senior year was going to be awesome. Ryan was sure of it. First off, there were the obvious reasons: they were finally at the top of the high school food chain, which incidentally also meant they'd be getting out soon. Out of East High, sure. But after this school year, Ryan was counting on getting all the way out of Albuquerque as well. Then there was the added bonus that after a summer full of surprises, there were members of the student body whom he now actually considered friends. As in, not his sister, and not his sycophants. It was kind of an alien concept, but it was one Ryan was enjoying. That there was still no guy in the school quite as fabulous as he, well, that was a shame. But it was an accustomed one, not to mention prime motivation for that afore-mentioned goal of getting _out_.

Ryan had not been counting on Sam Winchester.

Fabulous, he was not. When Sam first appeared in the doorway of homeroom in all his looming glory, Ryan wasn't the only one staring. The new guy handed his laser-printed schedule over to Ms. Darbus and only mumbled in response to her shrill questions, then followed her pointing finger and awkwardly brushed past Ryan on his way down the narrow aisle to a desk pushed all the way up against the back wall. Watching him try to fold himself into the tiny chair was practically a comedy routine all its own, although Ryan was at least classy enough not to snicker, though others could not claim similar courtesy.

" _Please_ tell me you play basketball." That was Chad, predictably enough. But Troy, Jason, and Zeke were also all staring hungrily at the new kid, endless championship trophies dancing in their eyes.

"No. Sorry." The guy kept his head ducked down, which kept his face pretty thoroughly screened by that ridiculously shaggy fall of hair.

"Then please at least tell me you got held back a few years," Troy pleaded, and Ryan had to smirk. For a high school boy, Troy stood pretty average. But for a basketball player? Troy was _short_. Ryan loved it.

"Yeah. That," the guy muttered, and when it became obvious that he wasn't going to elaborate, most of the students turned back around to face the front of the room. Darbus called roll and then announced that they all needed to extend an offering of warm friendship to Samuel Winchester, regardless of whether or not he played basketball, as one should never define oneself solely - _at all_ , Ryan figured - by athleticism. There were a few muffled groans of response, and Ryan joined his classmates in dismissing the stranger in their midst from his attention. But when the bell rang and the guy brushed by him once more, Ryan couldn't help but notice that he didn't smell nearly as grungy as he looked. He actually smelled... pretty good.

Ryan decided he would not notice this again.

But in gym class, there he was again. Ryan abhorred gym class, with all the resentful fury of a career chorus girl once again being passed over for the lead. He was too skinny, was always picked last for their stupid teams. And of course he didn't dare inadvertently look at anyone in the locker room, for fear that some idiot would notice him looking and get the completely arrogant and potentially dangerous impression that Ryan was interested in him, which Ryan _so_ was not. High school boys were such a closed-minded waste of time anyway.

As expected, the first day of class looked to be the beginning of yet another long year of absurd sports trials involving sweat and screeching sneakers and lines painted arbitrarily - to Ryan's mind - on the gym floor. He was still secretly holding out hope for the day when the school district would declare that all students finally had to prove their mettle by doing something truly athletic, like a particularly complicated salsa. But alas, today was not that day. Today the torture of choice was to be basketball — Ryan rolled his eyes as Chad and Troy immediately morphed from their (admittedly well-hidden) mostly tolerable kind of cool selves into the grunting cheering jocks which he'd always seen them as before. Sadly, even a summer of laid-back jokes and chill hang-out time couldn't completely bridge that divide between sports freak and drama geek, and Ryan was just as happy to sit out the first half of class, waiting on the bleachers with all the other rejects who'd been banished to the second team.

Despite his mumbled protestations, Sam was picked almost immediately — Chad was an eternal optimist, by the look of things. But for once, Chad was right. If Sam Winchester couldn't play basketball, then Kobe Bryant needed to take up knitting. Sam was _good_. His towering height was an unfair advantage from the start, definitely. But even Ryan knew enough to know that orangutan-long legs and arms didn't immediately equal skill; there was no question that Sam knew what he was doing, and Ryan grinned in spite of himself when Sam stole the ball from Troy and drove it down the court for a three-pointer. Troy's team groaned and Chad's outrage at Sam’s subterfuge was obviously warring with delighted surprise, but what made Ryan's breath catch was that quick teasing flash of smooth belly revealed when Sam stretched his arms over his head and made the shot.

It was that stolen second which still nagged at Ryan's mind later as he pulled open his gym locker and began to change back into his regular clothes. The locker room showers were out of the question, obviously, but they were also unnecessary as far as he was concerned. Break a sweat? On the _basketball court_? Oh hell no.

Sam Winchester was clearly in a different boat altogether, and it was obvious that sundry evil godlings were conspiring against Ryan today. When Sam walked past him on his way out of the showers, Ryan was sure his heart stopped. It couldn't have been a joke about the guy flunking a few grades; no high school boy had muscles quite so cut and defined as all that. And the towel hanging low on Sam's wet hips? For all that it was a perfect frame for some truly phenomenal abs, Ryan was convinced that towel was simply a crime against nature.

"Ryan!"

With a guilty start, Ryan looked frantically around for the source of interruption. He should have known it would be Zeke; the other guys all just called him “Evans” when they bothered to address him at all. Zeke, however, seemed to have some misplaced notion that if he sweetened up Ryan, it would get him further with Sharpay. "Yeah. Huh?"

"Is Sharpay doing her, um. Frangee wrap thing today?"

Ryan stared at him, his wholly-distracted brain suddenly pressed into intense service. "Her what?"

"I asked Sharpay to come watch me at football practice some time this fall. And she said she'd love to!" Zeke explained earnestly, his eyes lighting up in that way that made Ryan want to both pity him and kiss him, simultaneously. "But she said she had some emergency frangee thing first, and she could only come to practice when it wasn't that day."

The seconds stretched between them, and Zeke appeared to slowly leak enthusiasm, suffused with confusion in the face of Ryan's obvious bafflement.

"Oh," Ryan said eventually, aware that he had to say something. "Wait. You mean the frangipani body wrap, at the spa?" The spark of recognition flaring on Zeke's face was all the confirmation he needed. Damn you, Shar. "Yeah, I'm sorry. She's got that scheduled for today," Ryan lied, well aware that Sharpay despised the frangipani wrap, declaring that anything so closely related to oleander had to be toxic to her skin. "Actually, I think she's doing those all week." The light died in Zeke's eyes, and Ryan turned away with a wince, privately vowing to violently shake Sharpay's makeup brush case at the first opportunity. Let her try and find exactly which one she wanted _then_.

He hung back, waiting for Zeke to clear out of the locker room in the hopes of avoiding any more excruciating conversations. He'd made an error in lingering too long, though. He realized this once he hefted his messenger bag onto his shoulder, turned to stroll out into the hallway, and ran smack into someone— someone he'd already concluded he needed to avoid all physical contact with, for his own sanity.

"Shit, sorry!" Sam immediately crouched down and began gathering up the looseleaf papers which had spilled out of Ryan's bag. "Wasn't looking where I was going, I guess."

"That's okay," Ryan whispered, then swallowed hard and mentally screamed at himself for being so overcome. But oh my god, Sam had the greenest eyes he'd ever seen, not that changeable hazel depends-on-what-you're-wearing but honest to God green, and Ryan was pretty sure he was about to drown in them. "Um." He shook himself, and stuffed the last of his papers haphazardly back into his bag before abruptly standing up. But the guy was still blocking his path.

"I'm Sam." He waited, expectantly as far as Ryan could tell.

"I know." _And my jeans are way too tight for this nonsense, because I wasn't expecting to run into an actual Abercrombie & Fitch model at school today, not even one in desperate need of a decent haircut and a stylist._

Sam bit his bottom lip - Ryan suppressed a groan - and then gave Ryan a sunny smile, which he couldn't help but feel was oddly fake. "Have you been a student here for long?"

"Yeah. Since I was a freshman," Ryan answered, wondering which deity he had pissed off to suddenly be trapped in inane small talk with the new kid.

"Cool! Can you tell me—" Sam broke off and gestured towards the room behind Ryan, all dented aluminum and old sweat. Ryan had a fleeting hope that maybe the weird new guy had a perverted fetish for scarred wooden benches which were bolted to the floor, and for the first time in Ryan's life maybe one of his crazy torturous porn-is-real daily fantasies was about to come true, yes!

"...Is the locker room haunted?"

Ryan stared. He stared until he was sure his eyes were in danger of bugging out, but Sam didn't look at all disconcerted by this. "I really doubt it," Ryan replied eventually, and brushed past him without another word. He set off down the hallway towards his chemistry class with an agonizing sense of disappointment. Forget steel-cut muscles and bottle green eyes and entirely inappropriately-timed fantasies.

Sam Winchester was a total nutcase.

* * *

"Hey Junior! How was school today?" Dean grinned as Sam shouldered through the doorway of their motel room, then dumped his backpack onto one of the twin beds.

Sam's stomach growled and he immediately reached to snatch the bag of Fritos in Dean's lap.

"Back off!" Dean said, slapping at Sam's hand. "Mine. You go get some broccoli or something. Growing teenagers need their vitamins and shit!"

Sam snarled and upended the bag, spilling a mess of chips onto the table, and he secretly delighted in the way Dean's mockery abruptly changed to true annoyance. "Lay off, man, I'm starving," he muttered, and grabbed himself a Coke from the mini-fridge before pulling up a chair. "Tell me you learned something today."

"Me? Of course, have no fear. But this is so not important," Dean insisted, and smirked across the table at his brother. "Seriously, I want to hear about your day. Any hotties in math class? I bet those cheerleaders are pretty cute, eh?"

"Dude, you want to get arrested? I am all for you playing the freaky transfer student in this scenario. Hit on all the jailbait you want," Sam grumbled, and leaned in to take an upside-look at the charts Dean had spread out on the table. "Those the school blueprints?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, and to Sam's relief apparently decided to tone down his smugness for the moment. "The original building's not that old. It was built in 1946, and it's gone through a few renovations and additions since then. In 1957 they added a new wing here," he explained, laying his finger on the blueprints. "Then they expanded the yard to allow for a real football field, and added a baseball diamond the next year. In the 60's they added the theater, here, and then in 1981 they expanded the cafeteria. Sorry, cafetorium." Dean broke off and gave Sam an incredulous look. "What's with that word, anyway? Cafetorium? Sounds a little too close to crematorium, don't you think?"

Sam sighed. "It's a blend of the words cafeteria and auditorium," he explained, with what he considered to be remarkable patience. "Building the word that way implies that they've designated the space for two different uses, so when—"

"Yeah, I _know_ that. But don't you think—"

"All right!" Sam glared at Dean. "Cafetorium is a creepy word! Did you learn anything _useful_ today?"

"Looks like someone got a wedgie in the locker room," Dean muttered, and knocked back a swig of Budweiser. "Okay, where was I?" He quickly scanned his notes, then turned back to the blueprints. "Right. In '87 they expanded again, I think that's all science labs over there now, at least that's how the proposal was written up. This whole building here was added just for the swimming pool — I hear their diving team is pretty good." Dean rolled his eyes; Sam couldn't tell whether it was in silent criticism of diving being considered an actual sport, or just that a public high school actually got its own Olympic-sized indoor swimming pool. "And that's pretty much it. Lots of repainting, updated wiring, a few walls torn down here and there to expand some classrooms. New plumbing. But," he said, and shot Sam a look which Sam knew meant he was supposed to pay attention now, "no secret alcoves under the stairs or boarded-up boiler rooms or closed-off hallways. Although they did add a sushi bar to the caf in 1998. Seriously, what's with that?"

Sam shook his head. "All right, from what I can tell no one's living in fear. If they do know the legend - and seriously, I don't see how they could miss it - then either they haven't done the math, or they just don't believe the thing comes back every twelve years. And none of the kids I talked to seemed to think there were any haunted areas or spectral hot spots in the building."

"What about poltergeists? I mean, for sure there've got to be problems with that kind of thing, anytime. What with all the psychic pain and repressed anger and raging sexuality. You know," Dean said, and now that fucking smirk was back in force as he pointed at his brother. "Teenage stuff."

"You want me to just wander around randomly asking kids if they've been hearing weird tapping noises on the ceiling? Not happening, man." Sam frowned and grabbed another handful of chips.

"Well, Sammy, if you don't have the balls to go around randomly asking questions of harmless children, then we're not going to get very far."

"And if I come on too strong with the weird questions, then pretty soon no one's going to talk to me at _all_. Chill!" Pouting now, Sam kicked his chair back onto two legs and leaned his shoulders against the wall. "All right," he said with a sigh, and tried to marshal up the facts as they knew them. "The first death was when?"

"1948," Dean confirmed with a nod, "just two years after the place was first built. It's come back four times since then, usually in the fall pretty soon after the new school year starts, except for in '84 when that one girl got killed in May, which totally didn't fit the pattern." Dean shrugged. "Well, except for it being the once-every-twelve-years thing, and the fact that they couldn't find a single ounce of blood in her body."

"Yeah, that kind of stands out." Sam rubbed a hand tiredly over his face. "Still haven't found anything in the newspaper archives? About where the bodies were found?"

"Nah." Dean picked up a stack of computer print-outs from the floor, then frowned and licked orange Frito dust off his fingers. "As sensational as the murders were, apparently the papers weren't allowed to publicly print very many details on account of the victims all being minors. All we've got are those two eyewitness accounts, in 1972 and 1984, and they both got written off for being hysterical. But Dad wrote in his journal that those two reports both closely matched the details from the first death." Setting his notes down again, Dean rolled his shoulders like he'd been working too hard for too long - _as if_ , Sam thought - and then he shrugged. "I have no idea how Dad knew that. He didn't record where he got his initial info from, just the date and the scenario."

"All right," Sam said, the words sighing slowly past his lips as he tried to collect his thoughts. "Twelve. What's the twelve about?"

"In some circles it's considered a pretty significant number," Dean pointed out, and grabbed a pen to start adding to his notes. "Twelve months in the Roman calendar, although not in the lunar calendar. Twelve signs of the zodiac. Twelve..." he trailed off, frowning up at the water-stained ceiling.

"Twelve. Twelve is scripturally significant. Less modern, more Moses," Sam said, thinking out loud. "The twelve lost tribes of the Hebrews. Twelve gates of the City of Revelations, with twelve angels guarding them." He looked over at a snort from Dean. "What?"

"Angels? Seriously, man. Might be stretching a bit there."

"I'm brainstorming, shut up. Twelve is one of the perfect numbers. Jesus had twelve apostles. Three is considered the number of divine perfection, times four which is... shit." Sam frowned, scouring his memory. "Four is the number of creation; there's twelve. The Twelve Days of Christmas." Sam sighed. "And then...."

"Twelve-step plans...." Dean knocked back the last of his beer, then peered into the empty bottle. "Got it!" he exclaimed suddenly, and Sam abruptly sat up straight, ready for an epiphany. "Twelve girls on the Swedish Bikini Team!"

With a groan, Sam sank back into his chair.

* * *

“You know, he’s not all that bad when his hair’s out of his face.”

Sharpay’s murmur floated past Ryan, and he tried like anything to ignore it. The sharp jab of her pen in his shoulder was much harder to ignore. “What, damn it?”

“I said, _look_ at him! He’s actually pretty cute!”

Ryan gritted his teeth and stubbornly refused to turn around in his seat and follow the line of her gaze. “Shar, you’re staring,” he pointed out, irritated by the way she was all but leaning on his desk so that she could watch Sam, hiding in the back row as he was. “It’s gauche.”

“Oh please, Ry. Look at him, he lives gauche. He probably wouldn’t comprehend anything else,” she hissed.

Sighing, Ryan shook his head and continued his ploy of being fascinated by his trigonometry book. But he couldn’t quite make himself drop the conversation entirely. Not when they were discussing what was – much to his disgust – one of his current favorite subjects. “You’re such a snob.”

“Oh yeah, right,” she retorted, snorting a laugh. “I don’t see you extending your hand in warm friendship or whatever.”

Biting down hard on his lower lip, Ryan tried not to fixate on that one. Hand, warm, friendship... okay, so the friendship element was less critical than the rest. “He’s probably a serial killer in the making,” Ryan muttered, annoyed altogether with Sam Winchester, and with himself for spending so much time thinking about Sam Winchester. “Seriously weird. Yesterday he asked me if the boys’ locker room is haunted.” Scoffing, Ryan looked up and met his sister’s eyes. “Can you believe that?”

But her answer surprised him. “Oh yeah, totally! He sits two rows behind me in English, and then three seats to my left.” As she spoke, Sharpay fluttered her fingers in explanation, but Ryan had already realized he shouldn’t be surprised by her attention to detail: if there was a hot guy in the vicinity, you could bet that Sharpay had already calculated the exact best angle for him to view her from, in any given light source, and she was working to make the most of it. “Yesterday at the end of class he kind of bumped into Jenny Callow, and when he was helping her pick up her books he asked if she knew whether there’d ever been any murders in the science wing. Creepy.”

“Creepy,” Ryan echoed, in complete agreement, but he was already frowning about something entirely different. “Jenny Callow isn’t even cute!”

Sharpay gave him a penetrating look, and he silently cursed his tongue, knowing he’d said too much. “You think he should only knock over cute people?”

Ryan slouched into his seat, his pout deepening. “Yes.”

“Aaaaand here we go,” Sharpay said with a roll of her eyes. “The second day of the school year and you’ve already picked out who your first futile crush is going to be. Great.” The bell rang and she slipped her iPhone back into her purse, then gathered up the books for her first class. “And for God’s sake, Ryan, _posture_!”

Ryan straightened up so quickly it could only be – literally – a spinal reflex. He slung his messenger bag across his shoulder and followed Sharpay out of homeroom, and already she was babbling on, telling him all the things wrong with his choice for his first futile crush of the year, as she put it. “What do you mean, he’s an ungroomed gorilla?” he snapped back, stung by her tirade. “You said yourself he’s cute!”

“No, I said he’s cute _sometimes_ ,” she clarified. “And you, beloved idiot brother, need to someday learn to leave the conflicted emo ones alone.” There was just no arguing with that. But knowing how true Sharpay’s words were didn’t make the prospect any less gloomy.

* * *

“Mrs. Harding, you’ve been teaching Creative Writing at East High for a long time, right?”

The teacher smiled at Sam. "I'm so pleased to have a new student joining our class," she told him. "And yes, I've been working here twenty-six years,” she confirmed. “Since long before the senior smoking court was abolished, and I don’t mind telling you that it is _absolutely_ an infringement upon our freedoms, not to mention that the ruling juvenilized a whole cohort of students whom we’re supposed to be building up and preparing for maturity!”

Sam blinked. “Got it,” he said after a moment, and hitched his backpack onto his shoulders. “I was wondering, though — before I transferred here I heard some really weird stories about this school. Like, that there have been a few bizarre student deaths on campus?” He looked at her hopefully, praying that he might finally have found a decent source of information. “Murders, maybe?” Okay, so maybe he should tone down the hopeful act, given the subject matter.

Mrs. Harding narrowed her eyes at him. “There have been two very strange deaths since I’ve been teaching here, yes.”

“And, um. They happened on a twelve-year cycle, right?” Sam prompted. “And it’s been twelve years since the last one?”

Taking off her glasses, Mrs. Harding began to rub them clean with a lens cloth. “Mark Rowland died in 1996, that’s true.” She sighed, and Sam wondered if her frown went deeper than simple sadness for such a shameless waste. Her next words confirmed it. “He was one of my students. It was a horrible shock.”

"Oh. Gosh, I'm so sorry," Sam murmured, giving her his best sympathetic puppy eyes. "Do you know— do you know what happened? I mean, had someone been threatening him or anything?"

Rummaging through her top desk drawer, Mrs. Harding pulled out a battered purse-sized pack of Kleenex. "I doubt it. Mark was a good kid. Nice, friendly. He didn't seem to have trouble with anyone that I could tell." She sniffed, and pressed a tissue to first one eye, then the other. "He didn't arrive home after school one evening. His parents worried, and contacted the police late that night. But of course the police told them it was too soon to file a missing-persons report, and that he was probably just spending the night at a friend's house."

Sam watched as her eyes brimmed once more, but this time she didn't bother with the Kleenex. "The janitor found his body early the next morning, after he came to unlock the school." _Yes!_ Sam thought, his fist clenching in victory. "No!" he exclaimed. "Oh God, that's just awful." He shook his head. "Horrible." Watching her, Sam pulled another tissue from the pack and offered it up, but Mrs. Harding declined with a wave of her hand. "Where was that?"

"What?" She looked up at him, her watery blue eyes narrowing once more, though he couldn't tell if it was with suspicion or just confusion.

"I'm sorry, you said the janitor found him where?" Sam repeated, deliberately trying to keep his voice mild.

"On the floor of the boys' bathroom," she answered, and shook her head in apparent bafflement. Then she pointed vaguely down the hallway. "At the end of the math wing."

Biting his lip, Sam tried to look appropriately mournful despite his itch to race from the room and write down every detail she'd just related. "Horrible," he said softly, and reached over to lay his hand lightly on top of hers. "That's such a senseless waste, I'm so sorry."

And impatient though he was, he meant it.

* * *

 _Six. Seven. Eight._ Ryan counted the reps silently in his head, one for each biceps curl up, followed by the dumbbell's smooth arc back down. Contract, relax. Flex, and then rest. Four more reps, five... God, a perfectly beautiful set of fifteen, and Ryan eased back with a sigh of satisfaction. Funny that he'd never before enjoyed strength-training in gym quite so much. And even now he certainly had no intention of lifting anything heavier than his chemistry book — but Sam looked awfully good pumping iron. Truth be told, Ryan would give the chemistry book a pass too, if only he could get away with it. He was finding himself ultimately more interested in biology these days anyway.

"Could you spot me?" he asked quietly, and waited as Sam turned to face him, curiosity in his deep green eyes.

"Sure," Sam answered after a moment, and maybe that wasn't so much curiosity as confusion. "Um. On what?"

"What?" Ryan blinked, and re-ran the line through his head. He could have sworn that was exactly how it was supposed to be said— it certainly seemed to be the standard veiled proposition in all the gay gym porn he'd ever read. His brow furrowed as he wondered if perhaps Sam didn't read that kind of porn.

"Um. Well." Sam gestured at the rack of hand weights, then scratched at his scalp. "I don't think you really need a spotter for these," he explained. "Or, did you want to bench or something?"

"Yeah. Of course." _Confidence, Ry!_ Ryan adjusted his expression accordingly, praying he was radiating the self-assurance he so desperately needed. _Bench?_

"Okay." Shrugging, Sam did that hand-wave thing again, this time in the general direction of some sweaty-looking bench - _oh right, that_ \- and Ryan instantly regretted his brilliant idea. "It looks..." _incredibly unsanitary_ , Ryan thought, but didn't say that part aloud.

"Well, the vinyl dries pretty fast," Sam said, as if reading his thoughts— and boy did that ever make him score big in Ryan's Book of Necessary Boyfriend Qualities. "But here." Grabbing a clean towel from the stack by the wall, Sam wiped down the bench. Then he waited, and watched Ryan.

"Right. Thanks," Ryan said after a moment, realizing that if he wanted Sam's attention, then - for right now, anyway - he was pretty much stuck with this course of action. He lay down on the bench, trying not to think about all the high school boys with bad grooming habits who had likely lain there before him. But darn it all, there was that look on Sam's face again, that one that suggested Ryan hadn't thought this through quite as much as he'd thought he had. "What?"

"Do you want..." Sam shrugged, and glanced over his shoulder. "Tens? Twenty-fives?"

 _Oh yeah._ Frowning up at the bar, Ryan tried to decide what might impress Sam, while not simultaneously completely embarrassing himself. "I usually do forties," he said, his tone lofty, until Sam gave him that look again, and damn it Ryan was really getting sick of that look.

"Um. Okay." Grimacing, Sam scratched his ear, then turned away to the rack. "Why don't you go with seventy to start," he suggested, sliding weight disks onto the ends of the bar. "You know. Two sets of thirty-five."

"I'm stronger than I look." Ryan glared at Sam, annoyed that it would just be assumed that he was weak and helpless.

"Okay." Now Sam looked uncomfortable - a touch embarrassed, perhaps? - but he gave Ryan a crooked smile before lifting the bar and offering it. "I believe you. It's just— there aren't any forties. Okay?"

Ryan stared at him, then wrapped his hands around the bar. "Fine." He firmed his grip, then brought the bar smoothly down to his chest just like he'd seen it done on TV. And it was _so_ much easier than everyone made it look - damn it what a bunch of sissies - that he then pushed it back up without even a wince.

"Good," Sam said, and okay, it was perhaps a tiny bit pathetic how that rush of pleased warmth suddenly flooded through Ryan at such slight praise. But he grinned up at the other boy anyway. "Do you want to push it up to eighty, or keep going?" Sam asked, and Ryan blinked, his heart suddenly stopped at the mouthwatering sight of Sam's chest, flashing teasingly beneath his t-shirt as he stood behind the bar.

"Eighty," Ryan managed to croak out, and when Sam turned away to grab the extra weights, Ryan frowned and tried to quietly cough away the sudden hoarseness in his throat. But god, then Sam was back in place, standing over Ryan and showing off his chest again when he picked up the bar from its rests and handed it down, and Ryan found that he was having a very very hard time trying to lift the bar in an even rhythm when - with only the tiniest bit of eye strain - he could look up and back and watch how the waistband of Sam's gym shorts rode low on his hips, a dusting of dark hair arrowing in a line down his belly. "That's good. It's enough, I mean," Ryan announced after a handful of reps. "That's all I need." _Now stand still so I can drool over you properly._

"All right." If Sam was thinking wimpy thoughts about him, then at least he was hiding it well. "You're right, you're stronger than you look," he said, and damn it there went that insane thrill through Ryan's body again.

"Thanks." Ryan sat up, then turned around to straddle the bench, this time so he could look up into Sam's face. And he was going to look up, yes, any second now. Just as soon as he could tear his gaze away from the prominent bulge in Sam's shorts.

"Um." Sam coughed - the bulge jumped - and Ryan guiltily looked up to find spots of color staining Sam's cheekbones. "So, good set," he said after an awkward moment more, and if maybe that awkwardness was because Sam had suddenly realized he was in perfect position to receive the blowjob of his life, then that was more than good enough for Ryan. Unlikely, though. Even Ryan had to admit that, if only to himself.

"Yeah. Thanks," Ryan answered, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. He stood up before Sam could walk away, then gave him a bright smile. "Hey, if you ever want me to do you, just say the word, all right?" _Please say it!_

One silent second passed, then two. Three.... "Right. Got it, thanks," Sam muttered, his words coming just a little too fast, his bearing just a little too forced casual. Right up until when he turned away to leave the weight room and ran smack into the lat pull machine, stubbing his toe hard. "Goddammit fuck shit motherfucker!"

The muttering faded as Sam left the room, and he presumably hopped his way to the locker room. "Absolutely," Ryan murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

* * *

"C'mon, dammit. Fuck me!"

"Oh, you sweet talker, you." Dean drawled the words, then shouted towards the closed bathroom door, "You jerking off again?"

"...No."

The reply came just one suspicious moment too late, and Dean rolled his eyes. Then he stuck his fingers in his ears and starting humming "Fade to Black," but much to his relief Sam finally emerged from the bathroom before the end of the second guitar solo. "Seriously, dude. Could you at least wait until I went out for beer or something? Maybe even _send_ me out for beer?"

"Whatever, man." Sam crashed down onto his bed, then sat up and punched at his pillows before lying back again.

Dean waited. He waited, and then he started counting. But Dean's patience was not legendary, and he only got to five before he gave up. "What is with you? I haven't seen you this bitchy since Night Stalker got canceled." Sam shot him an indignant glare.

"Night Stalker was a really good show!"

"Yeah, and it was also two years ago. So get the hell over it!" Dean snapped back, and pretended not to hear Sam muttering his usual crap about how if they'd only just let Stuart Townsend use his regular accent, then it never would've been canceled at all. Like he'd never had to listen to _that_ tirade before. But soon enough Sam ran himself down into silence, and commenced with staring at the ceiling. Dean narrowed his eyes. General Sam grumpiness, yeah, he was used to that. And it wasn't unlike Sam to get bogged down and obsessive about depressing details when they were working on a case, either. But for Sam to still be so grouchy even right after he'd just beat off? That was just plain weird. "Dude, what's with you? You fail a spelling test or something?"

Sam's frown deepened. "Sam!"

"What?"

"Snap the fuck out of it, seriously!" Tired of getting a crick in his neck, Dean stood up and turned to straddle his chair, then braced his arms against the back so he could watch Sam. "What's wrong? No new info today?"

Sam shrugged, and started drumming his fingers against the ratty bedspread. "Not really," he confirmed after a moment. "Everyone always seems kind of surprised when I mention that we're on year twelve of the cycle and maybe we should be worrying a little about the whole bizarre murder thing." He chewed on his lower lip. "And they're starting to give me a really wide berth in the hallway."

Honestly, Dean could see how this would be so. And the truth of it was that it was one of his favorite parts of the whole gig: any time Sam had to lay himself down and get mortified for the sake of a case, that was pretty rockin' in Dean's book. "Hey!" he said suddenly, his eyes lighting up. "Homecoming's coming up soon, right?"

The glare that fetched him was pure death. "This had better be fucking relevant."

"It's totally relevant," Dean assured him.

"I mean to the _case_."

"Oh." Dean deflated a little, then shrugged it off. "Well it could be, anyway! You'll take a date to the big dance, and it'll give you a chance to blend in with the student body, you know? Think about it!" he insisted, seeing that mulish I-am-so-ignoring-you set to Sam's face. "Take someone popular! Then you'll be the hot new thing, and all the other kids will stop avoiding you. You'll get your ear closer to the ground, you'll be able to slip in a few subtle warnings about how people should be watching their asses, and you might even get a blowjob out of the deal! It's a perfect plan, Sammy!"

Sam snorted. "Wow, a blowjob? Does this mean you'll let me borrow the Impala?" he asked, his voice full of sarcastic eagerness.

"Fuck, no, you're not squacking all over some friggin' cheerleader in my car. When Hell freezes over, man!" Dean quirked a brow. "You'll just have to talk her into driving. 'Course then you might only get a handjob, but it's the price you gotta pay." He waited, waited for even the hint of a smile from his brother, something, and then finally gave in to his aggravation. "Fucking hell, Sammy, stop pouting already before I beat you! Okay, you can borrow my car. But you're cleaning it up after." Nothing. Dean waited through another long moment of stony silence, and then he just growled. "All right. No more cheerleader jokes, even. I promise. But you're going to have to take a date, and you know it. Or else you'll stand out even worse. So pick someone who's got their eye on you and just don't have any of that statutory sex stuff you're all fired-up and worried about."

"That's brilliant, Dean. Fucking brilliant." Sam rubbed his eyes.

"Hey, there've got to be cute students there!" Dean insisted. "It's, like, a statistical impossibility that there wouldn't be any at all."

"Yes," Sam sighed, "there are cute students."

"And?" Dean prodded.

"And... nothing."

Dean stared. Sam avoided his stare. Dean glared... and then he groaned. "No."

"Shut up."

"Sam!"

"What?"

"You didn't!"

"No, I didn't!" Sam snapped, finally sitting up and giving Dean his full attention.

"Well, good!" Dean snarled back, but no, reflecting back on the events of the evening so far, it just wasn't good enough. "But damn it, you were thinking about it!"

"Well _of course_ I was thinking about it!" Sam drummed his boots against the wall, one irritated _thump!_ following another, and then stomped over to the mini-fridge to grab a beer.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy, you fucking horrify me sometimes. Horrify!" Dean grabbed the open bottle right out of Sam's hand, and took a long swig of beer. "High school boys, seriously? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Fuck off!" Sam snatched his beer back and cursed when it frothed up and spilled out over his fingers. "And you are such a fucking bigot, Dean! You've been talking for days about how I should be taking advantage of this and banging cheerleaders, but all of a sudden it's wrong just because the _boys_ are young?" Bringing his hand to his lips, Sam licked off as much of the beer as he could, then looked up at the sound - sounds, really - suddenly coming through the thin motel wall from the next room. "Oh, damn it." Sam backed away from his bed as the headboard beyond began to pound rhythmically against the wall. Disgusted, he shook his head and snatched up his keys, then headed for the door.

"He's blond!" he shouted, turning in the open doorway to glare back at his brother. "He's about yay big, he's got a perfect mouth, and he keeps staring at me! You'd be tempted too, Dean!" The door shook on its hinges when he slammed it behind him.

Dean's nostrils flared as he took one deep furious breath in, then blew it out. "Now the world is gone, I'm just one!" Dean sang, loud enough for the couple in the next room to hear. So what if Metallica meant the song to be about Vietnam P.O.W.'s or whatever. Dean needed to calm down. "Oh God help me!"

* * *

"Boys' bathroom, second floor," Sam muttered. He'd spread the blueprints flat on the low brick wall outside the school's front courtyard, and now touched his fingertip to the spots where the bodies had been found, one by one. "Biology lab. Front lobby... damn it! It doesn't make sense, there's no fucking pattern!" He ground his teeth together and then looked up at a sudden flash of baby blue in his peripheral vision. "Oh. Hi."

"Hi." Ryan was looking at him warily, like he was still deciding whether or not it was safe to approach.

"Hi," Sam repeated, too busy thinking, _You're wearing a pink hat and you think_ I'm _the dangerous one?_ "Sorry, did I scare you?"

"Maybe a little." Still rigid with caution, Ryan took a seat on the low wall a few feet away from Sam. "Do you always talk to yourself?"

"Huh? Oh, no." Sam shook his head. "I'm just— brainstorming. Usually I've got my brother to talk to when I'm thinking out loud, but he's not here right now, so..." Sam abruptly cut himself off, realizing that he was babbling. And he forced himself to look away from Ryan's mouth.

"I'm here." Ryan shrugged. "You can brainstorm to me, if you want."

 _God, no, go away, go away fast, before I do something really really stupid..._ "You'd do that? I mean, no. Thanks, but— I can't."

"Oh, okay. Top secret evil mastermind stuff, huh?" There was a twinkle in Ryan's blue eyes. And it made Sam feel like even more of an idiot.

"Sorry. No, it's just... I don't know." He scratched his head and gave Ryan a curious look. Maybe... "Okay, see, here's the thing," he said, turning to straddle the wall so he could face Ryan. "Before I transferred here I kept hearing all these weird rumors about East High. Like, that it's, I don't know, haunted or something, and there's this evil spirit that keeps coming back to attack the students every twelve years." The mix of truth and lies spilled from Sam's lips with a near-desperate quality, imbued with all his frustration at spending a friggin' week dealing with polynomial equations and bad Shakespeare explications and still coming up with nothing. He looked at Ryan hopefully. "Have you ever heard about anything like that?"

"Oh, you mean like Minnie Winslow," Ryan replied, his demeanor as casual as if they were chatting about the weather.

"Who?"

"Minnie Winslow," Ryan repeated, tucking his right leg under him so he could face Sam. "The school ghost."

 _WhatWhatWhat???_ Sam's brain exploded in a clash of color and noise, and all he could do was stare. "Wait. You have— you have a ghost?" he demanded, his fist clenching in the blueprint and crumpling it before he forced himself to let go. "And nobody _told_ me?" But, oh crap, Ryan was staring at him again. Yeah, Sam knew that stare, that _Holy crap you are certifiable_ stare. He'd only seen it about five hundred times before.

"Um. Sorry?" Ryan's lips pursed - Sam suddenly found a nearby tree intensely interesting - and he exhaled a thoughtful breath. " _Oh!_ That's why you've been asking all those bizarre questions!"

"Yeah! I mean, I asked you about it the very first day!" Sam exclaimed, turning back to look at Ryan, and praying he didn't seem ridiculously needy. "Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"You asked me if the boys' locker room is haunted," Ryan pointed out, his tone puzzled.

"Yes, exactly!"

"Well... it's not. I mean, come on. It's just a story, you know? One of those bullshit legends the upperclassmen lay on the incoming freshmen each year. Like, the secret dungeon beneath the theater. Or the Jacuzzi on the roof," Ryan explained. "Whenever weird shit happens at the school - I mean really weird - people always say, 'Oh, it must be Minnie Winslow again.' Like that."

"But— wait." Sam dug a pen out of his pocket and scrawled the name at the bottom of the blueprints. "Who was she?"

"Oh, she was this girl who got killed on campus. Like, a year or so after the school was built. Creepy story," Ryan said, but shrugged it off. "Anyway, people always figure her for our ghost. You know, like, a tortured spirit trapped in our space and time, doing crazy stuff so people will notice her. You know?"

"Yeah, I'm familiar with the concept." Sam exhaled a slow deliberate breath, then carefully drew it back in. Here it was. His big source of information, right within arm's reach all this time, distracting him with sunshine-blond hair and that cover boy smile and those mouth-wateringly tight designer jeans. Fuck. Sam's hands twitched.

He was going to _kill_ Ryan.

"How weird?" he asked, so quietly that Ryan immediately leaned in closer.

"Sorry, what?"

" _Weird_ , Ryan!" The boy recoiled and Sam instantly tried to tone it down. "You said when really weird stuff happens around here, they blame it on her ghost. So, what kind of stuff?"

"Oh. Just... you know, when the burners in the chem lab ignite by themselves. Or sometimes at night when most everyone's gone, you can hear these strange thumping sounds on the stairs, like there's someone following you but you turn around and no one's there," Ryan explained, his posture relaxing again. "Or last year when the refrigerator in the AP biology class defrosted all of a sudden one night, and all the fetal pigs were in it — now _that_ was nasty."

 _Fetal pigs_ , Sam scrawled in the margin of the blueprints, then shook his head at what he'd just written. "Um, okay. Does anyone ever get nervous about these things? I mean, you make it sound like they happen kind of frequently."

"Well, yeah. Usually Minnie gets blamed for something a few times a year, I'd guess," Ryan replied, and gave Sam a tentative smile. "And of course Ms. Darbus gets totally superstitious about it. She won't even let us read the Scottish play aloud in drama class, much less actually perform it on stage."

Sam blinked at the sharp left turn. "The— wait, the what?"

"The Scottish play. You know the one."

Sam searched his brain, then shook his head. "Nah, I don't think so."

"You _do_ ," Ryan insisted. "You know, by Shakespeare? With the king, and the witches—"

"Oh, Macbeth!" Sam exclaimed, wondering why the hell Ryan didn't just say so in the first place.

"Fuck, don't let her hear you say that!" Ryan laughed, but Sam caught the way he suddenly glanced over his shoulder. Like he was actually nervous about it.

"Oookay. I guess that must be one of those theater things," Sam decided, and chuckled. The smile he got in return was so bright it nearly blinded him, and he instantly remembered he needed to keep things all business. "Um. So." He cleared his throat, and started over. "Noises and... unexplainable events, got it. But does anyone ever get hurt?"

"Hurt?" Ryan echoed, and looked at Sam like he wasn't quite sure he was getting the joke. "By a ghost?"

"Yeah." That something that had flared so brightly in Ryan's eyes seemed to die away, and Sam felt inexplicably disappointed.

"Do you believe in aliens too?" Ryan asked after a moment.

"Aliens? No." Sam could have elaborated with a whole long list of just what he did and did not believe in, but it didn't seem like Ryan was ready for the whole True Confessions bit yet.

Ryan nodded and let out a sigh of what might have been relief. "All right. So, do you want to go out tonight?"

Sam sat dumbstruck, and it took several seconds for his brain to get back in gear. "Go out tonight?"

"Yeah," Ryan answered, and added, "It's Friday. Are you busy?"

"Busy?" Sam swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat, and he could only sit frozen as Ryan shifted over until he was close enough that Sam caught the light scent of his cologne.

"As in, not available," Ryan murmured, then took a deep breath before continuing. "You're new to town. I thought maybe I could show you around. There's this great isolated spot in the foothills—" Ryan waved his hand in a vague westward motion, "where we can look out over the whole city."

 _Go out. Isolated. Tonight._ The words slammed back and forth in Sam's brain and he sucked in a deep breath, ready to babble excuses about homework he needed to catch up on, socks he needed to wash, a stray exorcism he had to perform. "Yeah, sure," he said instead, shocking even himself.

A smile bright as sunrise spread across Ryan's face. "Great. I'll pick you up."

* * *

"What do you mean, I should go out?"

"I mean, go out, Dean," Sam replied, and that didn't clear things up a damn bit as far as Dean was concerned. "Go catch a movie." Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Fine, go to Hooters. We passed that one on Ridge Road coming in."

"Hooters?" That did it: now Dean was downright suspicious. Sam normally didn't approve of Hooters as an acceptable hangout, not even when it was All-You-Can-Eat Ribs Night. Huh. "Are you coming with me? Taking a walk on the hottie side?"

"No, I— I've got some stuff to take care of." Sam didn't even meet his eyes.

"Uh-huh. What kind of stuff?"

"Just - you know - stuff," Sam insisted, and now he was pawing through his battered old suitcase.

"Stuff," Dean echoed, and took a seat on the edge of Sam's bed, the mattress springs squeaking in protest beneath his weight. He watched Sam in silence for a few moments, then nudged the suitcase with the toe of his boot. "Dressing for the occasion, got it. So... salting and burning? A good old-fashioned hunt?" Sam didn't answer, but screwed up his mouth in disgust and tossed a t-shirt aside. "Hey, that looked perfectly clean!" Dean protested.

"It's not— I'm just— what do you think?" And then suddenly, there it was, right there, one of the weirdest fucking moments of Dean's entire life: Sam was holding two completely ordinary shirts up against his chest and asking Dean to _choose_. "Sammy. You're cracked."

"No, just— I mean the blue's okay, right?" Sam asked the question in all seriousness, the look in his eyes painfully earnest. It was downright scary. And Dean was a man who had seen a lot of scary in his time.

"The blue— it's— Sam. It's a shirt. It's blue," Dean agreed, scratching the nape of his neck and wondering if Sam was due for a good possession... because a demon in his brother's head right now would explain a _lot_ about this moment. "As blue shirts go, that one right there is definitely blue. So what the fuck do you want from me?"

"Fuck, forget it," Sam grumbled. He stood up and skinned out of his t-shirt, swapping it for the blue one, his fingers flying over the buttons. And if Dean didn't know better, he'd swear the expression on Sam's face as he checked himself out in the mirror was anxiety. "Is my hair all right?"

"Jesus H. Christ." Dean flopped heavily back onto Sam's bed, the very picture of exasperation. "Tell me there's no more sausages at the diner. Or that you're taking up knitting. Or someone's stealing my car." He took a deep breath. "But never again in your life ask me about your _hair_. For God's sake, Sam!"

"Fine!" Sam growled under his breath - Dean very diplomatically chose to ignore it - raked his fingers through his hair one last time, and then sat down on Dean's bed to lace up his boots. "You're so friggin' melodramatic," Sam muttered. "And nosy. And hypocritical. And—"

"What's that, Sammy?" Dean interrupted him, and made a show of cupping his hand around his ear. "I can hardly hear you over all the bitching!"

"Whatever. Do you have any gum?" Sam asked suddenly, his face lighting up with panic as he grabbed his jacket and started rummaging through the pockets.

"Gum? No. I smeared the last of it in your hair last week, remember? Hey, wait a sec...." The light of realization finally flared in Dean's eyes, and he leaned up and braced himself on his elbows, shooting his brother a sly grin. "Sammy, you dog! You've got a date! Why didn't you just say—" His eyes went wide and then he groaned, sitting up straight and covering his face with his hands. "Oh god, you've got a _date_. Damn it, Sam!"

"I'm not having this conversation with you again," Sam insisted, standing up and pulling out his wallet, flipping through it and counting his cash. "I'm not."

Dean sulked. He wouldn't have admitted to it under torture - not even Celine Dion's greatest hits - but man he was fucking pissed, and right now he felt powerless, and that equaled sulking. Shifting to slump back against the headboard, he folded his arms across his chest and followed Sam's every motion with his eyes. "He'd better be cute," he muttered, once he could slide the words past his bottom lip.

Distracted from another critical check of his reflection, Sam sighed. "Yes. He's definitely cute."

"Uh-huh." Dean glared as Sam pulled on his jacket and grabbed his room key. "He'd better be _legal_."

"He's— crap." Sam lifted a hand to his temple like he had the migraine from Hell. "I— I'll—" he broke off, frowning. Dean waited. It didn't do him any good.

"Yeah. You'll...?"

Sam shifted his weight to the other foot. "I'll figure something out."

"Sam."

"I will!" Sam insisted, his eyes flashing fire at his brother. The door slammed shut behind him, rattling in its hinges.

"Great," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes. "Fuckin' Friday night. No Magic Fingers, no premium cable..." He picked up the remote control and flicked through a few channels before tossing the remote aside in disgust. "This town blows," he decided, standing up and grabbing his money clip. "I am so going to Hooters."

* * *

Ryan pulled his silver 2008 BMW convertible into the traffic circle in front of the school, and he couldn't help the silly grin that instantly leaped onto his face when he spotted Sam. Sam, who seemed to have actually put some effort into his appearance for once, if his clothing was any indication. Jeans without holes, a wrinkled but clean-looking dress shirt beneath a battered brown leather jacket — the outfit really didn't work at all, although Ryan was willing to spot him points for trying. And even so... Ryan sighed appreciatively as Sam approached the car and he got a better look at just how tight that shirt was, teasing and showing off Sam's chest in just the right way. So maybe the outfit did work. A little. "Hi," he said, leaning over and pushing open the passenger's side door. "I would've picked you up at your house. It's really no problem," Ryan said, picking up from the thread of their brief orienting phone call.

"Nah, it's fine," Sam insisted— again, and Ryan really had to wonder about that. "This is closer."

"Closer to what?" Ryan asked under his breath, but he wasn't really looking for an answer at this point. Because, truly, did he care? No. Not when Sam was sitting next to him in the cramped space of his sports car, all long legs and crooked grins and an oddly enticing mix of new soap and old leather.

"Can we put the top down?" Sam asked, and Ryan pointed out the control that would automatically fold the roof back. He liked his car, enjoyed the freedom and the style of it, but he absolutely adored the sheer boyish glee Sam took in dropping his head back against the seat and smiling up at the open night sky. "My brother would go crazy over this car," Sam said, cutting into Ryan's thoughts. "He'd start slamming you with all these questions about the engine block and the acceleration and whether it's turbocharged or whatever."

Taking advantage of a red stoplight, Ryan settled his hat more firmly on his head. Then he turned to check out Sam's profile, delighting in that dimple which tantalizingly flashed only now and again, like he'd somehow earned a glimpse of a secret. "Are you into all that car stuff?"

Sam shrugged, slouching against the fine leather seat. "Nah, not really. I mean, I know how to change the oil and do basic maintenance, but only because if I didn't then Dean would die from the shame," he explained. "I'm not obsessive like he is."

"That's good," Ryan said, and breathed a secretive sigh of relief. "Because I couldn't answer any of those questions for you." He flashed a self-deprecating smile, and was rewarded with Sam's laughter, throaty and fresh and making him realize he'd hardly ever heard it before. "You don't laugh often enough."

"Me?" Sam abruptly sobered, and Ryan wanted to kick himself for chasing away that rare honest moment. "I guess I... I guess I'm just pretty serious most of the time."

"Yeah. I guess." Silence stretched between them for long moments, broken only by the crunch of gravel under the tires as Ryan pulled off the main road and into the foothills. He drove up to the bluffs, parking far enough back from the cliff's edge for safety, but close enough so that the whole of the city spread out before them.

"Wow, you weren't kidding," Sam murmured, the lights of the night horizon reflecting in his eyes as he pulled himself out of his slouch and leaned forward onto the dashboard.

"It's kind of magical, huh?" Ryan felt stupid the second he uttered the words, but he was gratified when Sam didn't snicker at him.

"It is, kind of. I mean, from up here it looks beautiful. Clean." Sam gestured out at the constellation of fairy lights beneath them. His voice grew ponderous. "We're so detached from it all up here. You can't see the danger, or the misery or ugliness."

Watching him, Ryan just had to shake his head. "There you go again," he said softly, and he knew Sam understood when he ducked his head on an abashed smile.

"Yeah. Sorry." Sam shrugged, but his tone of voice didn't sound at all apologetic to Ryan.

"It's not all life and death, Sam," Ryan said with a soft chuckle, then looked over curiously when that earned him a sharp stare. "What?"

"It's just..." Sam's words trailed off, and he drummed his fingers against the dashboard as he stared out at the city. "It sort of is, sometimes."

Something in his voice tugged at Ryan, a distant sadness underlying his words, remote but constant. He reached out and trailed his fingers along Sam's cheek, refusing to pull back when Sam jumped, then froze. "What about just enjoying the moment?" he whispered, leaning closer and tracing the outline of Sam's mouth with his fingertip.

"Ryan, I—" Sam's breath stuttered, warm and just a little too fast against Ryan's fingers. "I can't."

Vague empathy transformed instantly into pain, a sucker punch to Ryan's chest. He swallowed hard and pulled his hand away to rest against the seat back. "Why not?"

"Because, I—" Breaking off, Sam looked at Ryan with honest curiosity plain on his face. "What makes you think I'm gay, anyway?"

Ryan shrugged. "Maybe you're just bi," he said, trying to keep his tone even, casual. "But, whichever, the straight guys don't stare at my mouth whenever I'm talking to them."

"Oh." Sam shook his head, then abruptly lifted his gaze to meet Ryan's eyes. "Still — I'm too old for you, you already know that," he said, and seemed to force the next words out. "I got held back a few years, remember? You and me, it's— it wouldn't even be legal."

Ryan blinked, and waited for the rest of the halting explanation. But when no more of it came, he tilted his head to the side. "Are you serious? That's it?" he asked, and chose to interpret Sam's awkward nod-shrug-recoil as a 'yes'. "Don't worry about it," he said softly, and when Sam drew breath to argue, he charged on. "I'm a July birthday, one of the oldest in the class, blah blah. I'm already eighteen." He waited for a response, but near as he could tell, Sam just looked kind of... stuffed. "Sam?"

"Yeah. Heard you." Sam blew out a deep breath, and still sat frozen.

But frozen meant that at least he wasn't scrambling to get out of the car, either, so Ryan figured it wasn't all bad. He chewed on his lower lip in a long moment of indecision. And then he went for it, swiftly leaning in and covering Sam's mouth with his own, his hand resting on Sam's _ohgodwarm_ thigh.

Sam made a little muffled squeak, but after another second his lips parted beneath the gentle pressure of Ryan's mouth, and Ryan licked in to taste him. Their tongues rubbed together, sending little sparks of sensation up Ryan's spine, and he lifted his hand to slide along the thin cotton stretched over Sam's chest.

And then it all changed. Ryan's mind blurred, then emptied, all his thoughts of making a move or pushing his luck or getting some — they just rushed away in a mad wash of color as Sam pressed him back into his seat. Heavy and undeniable and so fucking hot that Ryan was pretty sure he was melting, Sam's hands insistent and roaming, rucking up Ryan's shirt to blaze a trail along his skin. Sam's mouth, hungry and hard and demanding. Ryan whimpered into the kiss, trying to somehow work himself into a position that wasn't cramped and boxed in between steering wheel and gearshift. And for the first time ever, Ryan _despised_ his car. He managed to slip his hand under Sam's shirt, tracing those muscles he'd spent way too much time furtively admiring in the locker room. But then he felt the hard press of Sam's erection against his thigh and he damn near lost it — raking his nails down Sam's back and bucking up against him.

"Fuck," Sam panted, his lips wet and hot against Ryan's neck.

"Yes," Ryan agreed, because _now_ would be fine, oh yes—

Sam abruptly pulled away, leaving Ryan breathless and plastered against the door.

"What?"

"I. Um." Sam combed his fingers through his shaggy fall of hair, a nervous gesture Ryan had noticed in class a couple of times. "I just— um. First date and all that."

Ryan stared. His heart was surely pounding hard enough to give him internal bruising, and if Sam did not get right back on top of him now then he was going to get slammed with a first-class diva fit. "What?"

Sam shrugged, then swallowed hard, his Adam's apple working. It nearly distracted Ryan entirely, the taut flesh of his throat so smooth and vulnerable and there and Ryan came so close to climbing into Sam's lap and just licking, except— except he was really really angry with Sam right now. Right? Yes. Right. "Sam, you can't seriously think that come Monday morning I'm going to go crying about how you took advantage of me," he spat out, privately impressed that he was capable of putting quite so many words together at this moment.

Shaking his head, Sam tried to deny it. "No, it's not— I didn't think— I mean—"

Ryan was not having it. Not at all. "So it's _your_ reputation you're so worried about?" He narrowed his eyes, putting as much venom into his glare as he could manage.

And this time Sam just stared, gifting Ryan with the entirely hollow victory of having taken him totally by surprise. "What? No! Ryan, I—"

"Forget it." With chilly dignity Ryan pulled his shirt down, smoothing the wrinkles. He turned the key in the ignition and the engine purred to life. The smooth sound and faint vibrations had Ryan giving a mental middle finger to Sam's brother, wherever he was, because as long as Sam was being such a prick then Dean Winchester was _never_ getting a chance to drive his car.

They drove back to the school in near perfect silence. Once or twice Ryan caught sight of Sam twitching, turning in his seat like he was about to say something... but then he'd always slouch back again, his frown drawing deep grooves around his mouth where he was doomed to have wrinkles. In some not-too-distant future, if karma had anything to do with it — that was Ryan's silent wish, anyway. He idled the car by the front courtyard, where the night wind was whipping the lowered flag against the steel pole.

Sam climbed out and shut the door behind him, but then he turned back and leaned against the car, his eyes on Ryan.

"What?" One chance, Ryan figured. He'd give Sam this one chance to fix things, but it had damn well better be good. Sam parted his lips, drew breath like he was preparing to speak, and...

"Nothing."

Fine. Ryan gunned the engine and drove away without a look back. The wind tangled his hair, making him realize that not only did he need to put the top back up... but also that he'd lost his hat, damn it. It must have fallen off his head and out of the car in the mad crush of limbs and searing flesh that Ryan was not thinking about, _not_.

It was only later - alone in the dark lying on sweat-damp sheets - that Ryan finally let himself fully and viscerally remember the feel of Sam's body pressing so heavily on his, their thighs locked together and Sam's tongue in his mouth, teasing and insistent. He came with a shudder, and lifted his clean hand to his face to wipe away the angry tears.

* * *

Sam frowned and searched through his suitcase for some clean clothing. "I think we should get out and do some research today," he said over his shoulder to Dean, then stood up, a faded gray t-shirt in his hands. "And we're not going to be able to put off doing laundry much longer."

"Uh-huh."

Sam rolled his eyes at the absent response, and glanced at Dean to find him scanning the newspaper and stuffing another half donut in his mouth.

"Great. So glad I have your attention," Sam said under his breath. He tossed his shower-damp towel aside and pulled on his jeans, then combed his fingers through his wet hair.

"If you want my attention, I'm only gonna tell you stuff you don't want to hear," Dean announced from the other side of the room.

"Yeah?" Sam snorted a laugh and shook out the clean shirt. "Like what?"

"Like, your new boyfriend needs a manicure," Dean replied. "Those are some wicked scratches."

Sam looked at him in surprise, then twisted his neck to check out his reflection in the mirror. "Shit," he muttered, reaching back to press his fingers against one of the red streaks. His eyes softened as he thought about how Ryan had felt last night, cramped beneath him in his convertible. How Ryan had opened for him so eagerly, kissing him back with equal lust. And then Sam's mouth tightened into a frown as he recalled the bitterness in Ryan's voice at the end of the evening. "Let's just get to work," he muttered, pulling the shirt over his head and grabbing his wallet. "We should check the county coroner's files, and find out where Minnie Winslow is buried."

"Who?" Dean slurped the last of his coffee, then slipped his room key into his pocket.

"The East High ghost," Sam answered, and enjoyed the thrill of his momentary edge over Dean.

"What? Hey!" The door slammed behind them as Dean followed Sam out into the motel parking lot.

"Yeah, didn't I tell you?" The morning sunshine made him squint, but Sam still managed to smirk at his brother.

"Didn't I tell you?" Dean mimicked, his expression catty. "Just get in the car and 'fess up. It's too early in the morning to be pissing me off."

The Impala rolled smoothly onto the road, and Sam stretched out his long legs as best he could. "So, the first murder? That girl in 1948? Her name was Minnie Winslow, and she was a student, like we figured." Pausing, Sam frowned again, then continued with his explanation. "Apparently weird shit happens at East High all the time, and everyone blames it on Minnie's ghost."

"Weird shit," Dean echoed. "How weird?"

Sam shrugged. "Not that weird, really," he answered, knowing that what qualified as full-on bizarre to most people usually rated barely a raised eyebrow from the Winchesters. "Some of it's pretty standard poltergeist stuff— I think you were right about that. Some of it might just be ordinary malfunctions and short circuits and maintenance issues. But... the ghost is our most likely candidate for the murders. The spirit of a brutally murdered girl, angry and trapped and taking it out on the living."

"Right. Maybe we can find out what arrangements her family made, where she was buried and all that," Dean agreed, his irritation slipping away as his mind shifted into gear. "It'd be good to see if anyone ever had any clues about who killed her, too. Dad didn't mention those details in his journal."

"Yeah, I think this is one of those Dad Specials," Sam replied, leafing through the journal in question. And shaking his head at the bare bones information in the East High entry. "At least he gave us more than just map coordinates, this time."

* * *

"All right, here we go," Dean breathed, and clicked the mouse, sending the ancient newspaper article to the printer. "Sam!" he called, earning himself a sharp look from the matronly librarian. He gave her a wink in return, then laughed under his breath when she flushed and abruptly turned away. "Here," he said, laying out the printed pages on the table where Sam had spread out some documents. "Minerva Alice Winslow. She was born in 1931. There's more info than usual on her because her family had money— her murder made a hell of a splash."

Sam's brow furrowed, and he pulled the pages closer so he could read them. "East High student, well-liked by her peers. Active in the school newspaper, the Latin society, and the Hummingbird Club." Sam blinked, then shook his head. "All right, I have no idea what that is."

"It's a gardening society, I looked it up." Dean sighed in resignation and handed over another paper. "They didn't even have cute uniforms." He caught Sam's eye roll and gave him a bland look in return. "What?"

"Funeral at the Monroe Chapel, buried in the adjacent cemetery," Sam said, continuing to read. "And her murderer was never found." He laid his finger on a fuzzy black-and-white picture of the school. "They couldn't solve the case because they had practically no information. Initially the school's night janitor was arrested and questioned, but they had to release him because they didn't have any actual evidence."

"Presumably, no murder weapon," Dean cut in, and Sam nodded before continuing.

"Interest remained high - like you said, her family made a big stink - but the case stayed cold, and was officially closed... twelve years later." Sam breathed the last words with near reverence, and looked up at Dean with that familiar excitement in his eyes.

"We finally got a twelve," Dean said, and yeah, that spike of energy thrilled through him, too. "Took long enough, damn. And of course, by that point, they had a new murdered kid on their hands." He hitched himself into a seat on the table, and ignored the malevolent look from the librarian. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, it says Minnie was stabbed to death," Sam answered. "Which is... not exactly. Dad's journal said the corpses were all totally drained of blood, right? One deep slash across the throat, and nothing left." He scratched his forehead. "I mean, I guess either way she bled to death, but..."

Dean frowned, considering it. "'Stabbed to death' does seem an awfully lightweight way to put it. I guess it must be the cleaned-up version for the press and the public. Makes sense," he pointed out. "Especially considering the time period, and her age."

Sam shrugged and started scanning the pages again. Then he pulled another print-out towards him. "But look at these other articles I found. From East High's own newspaper," he said, and Dean leaned in, his attention piqued. "School happenings for the week of September 18th through 22nd, 1960. The power blew, and the whole school was shut down for a day. Then a table collapsed, pinning a student and breaking his leg. And then, one of the pipes on the second floor burst, flooding the girls' bathroom and two classrooms." Sam looked up at Dean expectantly.

Dean craned his neck to try and read the photocopied faded newsprint. "September, huh? How close was that to the second murder?"

"The week before! And then—" Sam sorted through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. "Again, in 1972. There was a small fire in one of the shop classes, burning a student. Three kids opened their lockers to find half their textbooks shredded. And then one of the lights in the theater fell from the rigging, nearly landing on another student."

"Okay. So, you're thinking there's a pattern?" Dean nodded, and pulled out a pen to start adding to his own notes. "The second time, that was the week before the third murder?"

"Yes, exactly! It's, like... sentinel events. Portents," Sam decided. "I bet you anything if I can find the school newspapers from 1984 and 1996, we'll find that strange stuff happened at the school in the weeks before those murders, too."

"Okay. So...." Folding his arms across his chest, Dean chewed over the info. "This is good. I mean, at least this way you should have some warning it's coming again. We need to find out if any of the kids who got hurt in those things were the same kids who got killed a week later. And you—" he pointed at his brother, "you need to keep your ass in school, eyes and ears open. Watching for when it starts up."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam sighed, seeming to deflate after his momentary excitement. "And while I'm suffering through friggin' first year Latin, again, you'll be doing... what?"

"Hey, are you suggesting that I'm not pulling my weight? That hurts, Sammy. Really." Dean tried to pout, but it morphed into a frown pretty fast. "I've got to get out. If I have to spend another flippin' week in that cheap-ass motel room, I'll lose my damn mind." He rubbed his hand hard over his eyes. "All right, I've got plenty to do. I'll find those high school newspapers, like you said. I'll look for every scrap of info I can find on the later murders. And I'll check out the cemetery while I'm at it, make sure Minnie's grave looks all nice and normal. No perfect circles, no total dead patches, nothing out of the ordinary." He blew out a breath. "And if all that gives me nothing, maybe I'll give Bobby a call."

Sam's brow furrowed. "You think Bobby knows something about this? I thought he'd never been to New Mexico."

"Maybe not." Dean shrugged, thinking of the hunter who'd been nearly like a second father to them both. "But, if nothing else, he'll laugh at your gig, and then he'll tell me we're both idiots." He glared at the look that fetched him from his brother. "What? Fuck me for feelin' a little homesick."

* * *

Monday morning homeroom was excruciating. Sam slouched as low in his seat as he could – not much – and tapped his pencil in a nervous tattoo against the desk. And he didn't look at Ryan. Then he stared at the clock above Ms. Darbus' head, counting the interminable seconds as they went by one by one by one. And he didn't look at Ryan. Then he went so far as to actually open one of his textbooks, and attempted to lose himself in the three branches of the U.S. government, and... Fuck. Okay. So he couldn't stop looking at Ryan.

Because Ryan looked... miserable. Really unhappy, at the very least—Sam wasn't quite ready to accept that he might have caused outright misery, particularly without even trying to. It surprised Sam somewhat, that after a mere week of involuntary interest he could already read the set of Ryan's too-stiff shoulders. The unhappiness was there, yes. But it was close to being edged out by anger, that was obvious too. One thing was certain: Ryan was _definitely_ not looking at Sam. Sam told himself this was a good thing. He was smack in the middle of a case, mired in decades-old unsolved murders and searching desperately for a lead. He did not have the time to get distracted, certainly not by something so superficial as a social life—a concept which Dean had kissed goodbye years ago and Sam was really starting to understand why. It was better for everyone concerned if he focused himself totally, no flirting or dating or, or weight-lifting. Forget that Ryan made him laugh, and he was mercilessly adorable, and Sam was starting to think that he could maybe even get used to the hat fetish. And it was definitely better if he didn't think about the way Ryan kissed – at all – because when he dropped his guard for just a few seconds of absent remembering, already he had to shift in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position when suddenly his jeans felt too tight.

The bell rang and his classmates got up, noisily talking and joking and gathering their books for first period. Sam carefully waited in order to give Ryan time to leave, thereby avoiding any awkward jostling, or even worse the big confrontational showdown that they were probably due for. Ryan stood and picked up his messenger bag, shrugging and murmuring a reply to whatever Sharpay was babbling on about. He then paused there in the aisle, clearly waiting for his sister to take the lead, like always. But Sharpay apparently had ideas of her own, and Sam blinked in surprise at the sheer venom in her eyes when she made a point of turning around to glare at him. The glare was evidently supposed to be sufficient punishment, however – Sam tried not to notice that he was suddenly sweating – and Sharpay turned on her stiletto heel and stalked out of the room without another look at him.

Sam watched Ryan follow silently after her, across the classroom, to the door, out the door— "Damn it." Sam abruptly shoved out of his chair and grabbed his backpack, quickly skirting a few straggling students so he could catch up to Ryan in the hall. "Ryan, wait."

Two blond heads turned at his plea, and Sam took an involuntary step back. "Not you," he muttered, glancing furtively at Sharpay, then turning back to her brother. "Just give me a minute. Two minutes."

"Please, like he's got room in his schedule for a lowlife like you," Sharpay spat, and placed her hand on Ryan's arm, urging him along.

Sam rolled his eyes and kept pace with the pair. "I need to talk to you," he insisted, trying to somehow manage discretion in the crowded hallway while still conveying his urgency. "I need to explain."

"What?" Ryan asked, halting in his tracks and turning on the spot so he was face to face with Sam. Sharpay plucked at his sleeve but he shrugged her off, and looked up to meet Sam's eyes. "What do you need to explain?"

"I—I just—“ Sam frowned as the flow of students parted around their little tableau like water, a few faces looking up at him in curiosity. "Maybe we could—" he cut himself off, and gestured towards the open front hall, where the traffic was already trickling down to nothing as students reached their classrooms and settled in. Ryan shook his head but didn't dismiss him, and instead strolled over to lean against the massive faux-bronze statue which dominated the wide lobby. Sam followed, feeling Sharpay's eyes drilling into his back, and gave a quick glance at the sculpture. "Wildcat," he muttered, trying to recall whether his own – first – high school had gotten so literal with their mascot. "Cute." He sighed and closed in a bit nearer, pitching his voice low so it would reach only Ryan's ears. "I'm sorry about Friday night."

Ryan stared blankly up at him, one raised eyebrow the only indication that he was listening at all. "Sorry?"

"Yeah," Sam said quietly. "It didn't go how I thought it would. I mean, I didn't mean for things to go like that. I mean—“ he winced, and fell silent.

After a long moment of silence, Ryan shrugged. "No problem."

"No, it was!" Sam insisted. "I mean, it is. It's not—I don't want you to think that's... me."

"That wasn't you?" Ryan asked, his tone of voice sarcastic, but blandly so, like Sam wasn't even worth the energy for something more demonstrative.

Sam frowned. "It was. I mean, obviously. But—" he licked his lips and tried to focus his thoughts. "Look, I just— I was with you, and then all weekend I could only think about... Dean!"

"Excuse me?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry," Sam muttered, then snapped his incredulous gaze back to the front doors. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"What? I'm here to see the school's principal," Dean explained, like that was _any_ kind of explanation at all. He strolled over to join them, dismissing the wildcat sculpture with a quick raised eyebrow and then looking back at Sam.

"Dean, the principal?" Sam asked in disbelief. "When in your life have you ever wanted to talk to the school principal?"

"Well, I'm not a student here, am I? He's not _my_ principal." Dean turned his patented Winchester ‘charming the marks’ smile on Ryan. "Are you a friend of Sammy's?" As he said it, he reached up and squeezed Sam's shoulder, the image of brotherly love. Sam gritted his teeth.

"Sammy?" Ryan echoed, and then he snorted a small laugh. "No, I don't think so."

"Hey, wait!" Sam protested, shooting Ryan a wounded look. "Dean, Ryan Evans," he said, hoping Ryan's ingrained-from-birth politeness would hold him in place through the introductions. "Ryan, this is my brother Dean."

Ryan nodded sagely. "The car freak. Got it."

"Hey, now. 'Freak' can be a very hurtful term, little man," Dean replied, his gaze traveling from Ryan's green fedora all the way down to his saddle shoes, and then back up. "Huh." He shrugged. "Sam, I just wanted to—" he abruptly cut himself off, and looked back to Ryan once more. "Oh. So _you're_ the one."

"Dean," Sam said, his tone a clear warning.

"What?" Dean shrugged and met Sam's gaze without blinking, and Sam's mouth twisted in frustration. "I've just got a meeting," Dean said, and waved his hand towards the bank of administrative offices fronting the wide adjacent corridor. "I thought it might be interesting to speak with the principal," he explained, "you know, someone who's been around here a while. Someone who knows the school's history."

Sam nodded. "Good idea," he agreed, but he didn't relax his posture. "Go do that." He glared at Dean for a long moment. "Now would be fine."

"Sure thing, Sammy." Dean flashed that phony smile again, and Sam smothered a groan at being its target. "Don't be late getting home from school," he chided his brother, his tone all exaggerated concern. "We're having macaroni and cheese tonight. Your favorite!"

"My favorite. Great, thanks." Sam's mouth stayed set and tense while Dean clapped him on the back and then smiled at Ryan again before finally turning away and heading down the hall. "God."

"Macaroni and cheese?" Ryan muttered, and for a moment Sam was nearly grateful for the obnoxious interruption, since it had taken some of the blistering chill out of Ryan's voice. Then Ryan met his eyes, and Sam almost staggered back a step under the weight of that direct blue gaze. "Your brother Dean. Much becomes clear." Sam opened his mouth on an automatic protest, but Ryan was already continuing on. "What did he mean by 'you're the one'?"

"Huh? Oh. He just meant..." Sam shrugged, and figured he might as well go with honesty—it wasn't like he could dig himself any deeper just then. "I guess he could tell that you're the one I've been... talking about," he replied, his words dropping to a near whisper at the end.

Ryan glanced away, and shuffled his feet against the worn floor tiles. When he spoke again, Sam immediately ducked down to hear him better. "You've been talking about me?"

"Well, yeah." Sam tried to make it sound like a casual thing, but he could feel his cheeks traitorously heating up. "I mean, I live with him. He knew I had a date Friday, and..." the words trailed off, and he shrugged again. "Yeah."

A long moment passed between them in silence, and then Ryan's lips hitched up in an ironic half-smile. "A date,” he murmured, “right.” He nodded, and then suddenly looked up at Sam in challenge. "Too bad I'm not going to ask you out again," he pointed out. "I do have a reputation to maintain."

"Your reputation. Got it." Sam swallowed hard around a lump of something that might have been guilt, and he scratched his head. "I guess it's my turn, anyway. To ask, I mean," he explained.

At that, Ryan peered up at him from beneath his hat brim, and Sam's heart started to beat a little faster at the amusement dancing in those blue eyes. He grinned, beginning to feel like maybe things were getting better...

...Except that they suddenly got a whole lot worse. "Oh. Shit."

"What?" Ryan jerked around to follow the line of Sam's gaze, and his jaw dropped. "This can't happen."

"This is bad," Sam agreed, watching as Dean leaned an arm against the wall and started chatting up... Sharpay. Sharpay, who was batting her eyelashes right up at Dean, and angling her body so that he couldn't miss the view of her cleavage even if he were blind. "We have to stop them," Sam declared, striding off and just assuming that Ryan would keep up.

"We have to— what?"

"Dean!" Sam's glare should have been able to burn through walls, but Dean just looked at him like he was a gnat. And only a mildly irritating one, at that.

"Sam?"

"You can't— this is— Dean!"

"Easy there, tiger. Just sound out the words and get back to me." Dean smirked, then turned back to smile down at Sharpay.

"Shar!"

Sharpay glanced aside at Ryan, and she appeared to be a touch surprised that her brother was getting involved in this at all. "What? Oh, don't tell me." Sharpay glanced from Dean to Sam, and then back. "You two are actually related? What the hell kind of genes do you have?"

"It's a damn shame, isn't it?" Dean drawled. "He's always been pissy that I'm the handsome one."

"Ooh, and you _are_ ," Sharpay purred, reaching up to curl her hand around Dean's nape.

Sam looked aside at Ryan, and was pretty sure his own expression was equally queasy. "Dean, principal," he hissed, and started edging away, his hand at the small of Ryan's back. "And we have class."

"Uh-huh." Dean's agreement was absent-minded, as was his wave goodbye. "We'll catch you two kids later."

"Don't look," Sam muttered under his breath, heading down the hall with Ryan. And if only he'd followed his own advice, then he would've mercifully missed the moment when Sharpay gave Dean her phone number.

* * *

"Mr. Waters? Mr. Edmund Waters?" Dean banged on the front door again, and peered through the glass inset of the door, trying to see through the dimness of the house. He squinted when he caught sight of movement inside, and then stood back to take up a sort of parade rest on the front stoop. A chain rattled, then the sound of two deadbolts turning, one after another. And then Dean was looking down at a balding head.

"Yes? What do you want?"

"I'm Detective Osbourne, Sir," Dean announced, and quickly flipped open his wallet to flash an I.D. badge. "I understand you were the principal of East High from the years 1973 to 1999?"

"Yes." The man tipped his head back to look up at Dean. "Who told you that?"

"The current principal, Ms. Lynde," Dean answered him blandly. "Nice lady. She also gave me your address."

"That's completely inappropriate," Waters muttered under his breath, and scowled. "Why are you here?"

"If it's all right, I'd like to come in and ask you a few questions as part of an ongoing investigation. I just need a few minutes of your time, sir." The man's eyes narrowed, and Dean wondered if there was an expression in them beyond generalized suspicion. Some nervousness, maybe?

"I haven't been back to the high school since I retired," Mr. Waters told him shortly, but stepped back into the dimness anyway, leaving the door standing open behind him as he took a seat in a leather recliner.

Dean followed him in and settled on the couch opposite him. "So, why did you leave the school?" he asked, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely before him.

"I _retired_ ," the man repeated, and now he just looked irritated. "I was sixty years old and I'd had it up to here with kids," he explained. "Not to mention their annoying parents, every single one of whom thought their child was the most brilliant of all and couldn't possibly do any wrong."

"Mm-hmm." Had John ever thought that about him? Dean wasn't so sure. Sam, maybe, not that Sam had ever realized it. "And what about the murders that took place on the school grounds? Did you ever have any idea why those happened?"

Mr. Waters froze, his hands clutching the arms of his recliner, fingernails pressing shallow crescents into the leather. "Murders?"

"Yes, sir," Dean answered promptly, his gaze direct and steady. No way was he letting this guy off easy. "Two strange murders, in the span of twenty-six years while you were principal at the school."

Hunching his shoulders, Waters drew himself deeper into the chair. "Who did you say you were?"

"Detective Osbourne," Dean repeated. "My partner, Detective Iommi, is currently on site at the school to collect evidence. Now we know all the public details," he continued, waving a dismissive hand. "What I want to hear is how things looked from your perspective. Were you at all suspicious or concerned after the first murder? Did you consider the possibility that another might occur?"

"Why would I think that?" Waters burst out angrily. "It was a goddamn horrible bizarre murder. You don't expect to see that kind of thing happen twice. You don't expect to see it even once!"

Dean raised an eyebrow and just watched him in silence for a moment. "Except," he said, giving Waters time to guess what was coming. "Except that a similar murder took place in 1972, the year before you started working there. And the one in 1960 was already public knowledge. In 1984, when another occurred... you had to think something was going on."

The man's face drained of blood. "Are you... are you accusing me?" he ground out, and Dean read the shock on his face as pure and genuine. Of course, he was expecting as much; he certainly wasn't making this little housecall in search of a suspect.

"No, sir," Dean told him with a shake of his head. "But I'd really like to know why you didn't warn the parents and students before 1996 rolled around. You knew it was coming."

"I didn't!" Waters protested. "Accidents happen! Sometimes people die!" He took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. "Every institution has its own history of violence; it comes from a building having a history at all."

"Those weren't accidents, Mr. Waters." _And you knew that_ , Dean mentally added, but chose not to say so out loud. Judging by the sharp edge of tension running through Waters' thin frame, he was close enough already to getting himself kicked out. Waters shot him a venomous glare.

"You— you're suggesting that I should have told four thousand parents that twelve years before, a student had died on campus, nearly decapitated, and not a drop of blood left in her body?"

 _So you do know that little detail_. Dean fought not to smirk. "I'm suggesting that, yes. It would have been for the students' own safety."

"Are you crazy?" Dean chose to take that question as rhetorical. "The city would have panicked! There would have been national press coverage, perhaps even international. A witch hunt, feeding on its own murderous energy. And stopping when?" Mr. Waters was slightly breathless in his excitement. "There was no one to _find_!"

A long moment stretched between them in silence. "No one?" Dean asked softly. "You don't think there was a guilty murderer running around?"

Waters shuddered out a breath, then dragged one back in. "I've told you everything I know. It's time for you to leave," he bit out, abruptly pushing himself to a stand. He pointed at the front door, insistent even in spite of the way his arm trembled.

Dean stared steadily into his eyes for a couple seconds more before he got to his feet. "Thank you for your time, sir."

* * *

The Impala's engine purred to life and Dean drove off down the tree-lined street. He waited until he was about a half-mile away before he pulled the car into the parking lot of a strip mall, then sat back with his hand-scribbled notes and his father's journal. "Edmund Waters," he murmured, grabbing a pen from the glove compartment. "Knew the history. Definitely knew enough to be scared. Got out..." he tapped the pen against his lips as he ran the dates through his head, "a few years after the last murder." His eyes narrowed as he recalled the fear in the man's eyes, edged by panic when he spoke of a witch hunt. "And he was already convinced there was no murderer to catch."

Dean worked through the setup in his mind for another minute, and glanced at the city map spread out on the passenger's seat before pulling out his cell phone. He rolled his eyes as he waited through Sam's recorded message - checking his watch, he figured his brother must still be in class - then waited for the beep. "Hey, I just spoke with Edmund Waters, the last principal before the one who works there now. The one who's there now knows absolutely nothing about the murders, by the way, but I did get that she's a financially-independent double divorcée who is happy to foot the bill for out-of-town weekends with willing, erm... toys, let's just say." Dean snorted a laugh, remembering the completely undisguised invitation he'd seen in the woman's eyes. "Anyway, the old guy, he was there for two of the murders and retired in 1999. And I'm telling you, Sam, he knows. Your pals from class might still think this is all just some ghost story, but some of the adults _absolutely_ believe those murders weren't committed by any living person." He scratched his head. "I'm guessing because a few key grown-ups knew more of the specific details. Details which, oh by the way yeah, Waters totally admitted to suppressing. Said he didn't want to start a panic."

He slid lower in his seat as a police car cruised slowly into the lot. Getting arrested right then, for any reason, would really screw up his plans. "So, I'm going to the cemetery now. There's a whole Winslow family plot, Minnie should be there." The cruiser continued on past him, then parked in front of a QuikMart at the other end of the lot, and Dean eased back up with a soft sigh of relief. "I'll catch you tonight."

* * *

"All right, all right." Dean rolled his eyes and pulled the pitcher of beer closer to him, then topped off his glass. "You've been doing that tight-lipped prissy fuming thing all evening. Just say it already."

"Just say it?" Sam echoed, and Dean could see that 'prissy' had really struck home. "Sharpay is Ryan's twin sister, Dean. His sister!"

"So?" The dish of bar snacks got pulled closer as well, and Dean began digging through it in search of anything unrelated to peanuts. "Do you think it's true what they say about these things?"

Sam blinked, his train of thought clearly derailed. "What?"

"These things," Dean insisted, and held up a mini-pretzel by way of example. "You know, that they're actually crawling with more germs than your average toilet seat?"

"Dean." Wincing, Sam grabbed for his paper napkin and tried to wipe any remaining crumbs from his mouth. "That's totally disgusting."

"Yeah, but it makes sense, you know? Because these dishes just sit out in the open air, where anyone can touch 'em, and you don't know if people even washed their hands or whatever." He raised an eyebrow at Sam's pained expression. "Hey, I know a lot about microbiology." Tossing a pretzel into the air, Dean tipped his head back and caught it in his mouth, easy. The hardest part was keeping himself from choking on his laughter when Sam looked like he was going to just... well, choke.

"I think I'll stick to the Buffalo wings." Sam rubbed a hand over his eyes, an old gesture which still put Dean on the alert, and fast.

"You sleeping badly again?"

"Huh? No." Sam shook his head, but the frown lines stayed put.

"You sure?" Dean shifted in the booth, trying to get a really good look at Sam's eyes in the dim bar lighting. "No nightmares, massive migraines, evil premonitions, nothing?"

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam insisted, and now he just had his usual exasperated thing going on. "I'm just..." He trailed off, and his mouth tightened into a frown again.

"...Oh. That." Dean nodded, like this was no news to him; and really, it shouldn't have been. After all, the signs were all there: new crush, souvenirs of a hot evening, but no let-up in tension the morning after. "So, um." Clearing his throat, Dean tried to work his way around the words that he really just didn't want to be dealing with at all. "You gonna see Ryan again?"

Sam shrugged, which might have been uncommunicative avoidance for anyone else, except that Dean could read Sammy like a book.

"Yeah, well. You should then, I guess. I mean, if he... which I guess he would, really. Except for, well, you know. And then there's the hat thing. I mean, seriously, green? But I guess that as long as... well, okay, sure. Whatever." Dean shrugged and knocked back a large swallow of beer.

Sam stared at him for a long confused moment. " _What_?"

And now it was Dean rubbing his eyes like he had a damn headache. "Fuck, Sam, you want me to spell it out? You have my blessing, go," he said, and made a shooing gesture with his hands. "Go have hot monkey sex with Mr. Debutante, Junior."

Unbelievable, Dean thought. Sam actually had the balls to look offended. "Dean, I don't need your blessing."

"I know that," Dean insisted, although really Sam could have been a _tiny_ bit more grateful, or sensitive, or something. "He's cute, I get it. I saw the mouth thing, I know what you meant by that. And if he were a girl, I could totally see..." he trailed off thoughtfully.

"Yeah, about that," Sam cut in, and Dean realized he'd made a tactical error. "Dean, she's his sister. Don't. I mean, just don't."

"Why not?" Insulted – okay, more on principle than anything else – Dean shot a glare at Sam and then raised their empty pitcher at a passing waitress, signaling for a refill. Which he was clearly going to need in order to deal with this hypocrisy. "She's hot. And she can't possibly be any less legal than Ryan is, so don't you start that shit. But Sam, seriously. When I said I had a fantasy about hot blonde twins? This is _not_ what I had in mind."

"Yeah, I'm so sorry to be deflating one of your many many fantasies," Sam muttered. He combed a hand through his hair and then looked up as the waitress brought a fresh pitcher of beer. "Thank you."

"Thank you," Dean echoed, flashing her a smile. She gave him a sassy grin back – who could blame her? – and he craned his head over his shoulder to check out her ass as she walked away. "Nice."

Watching him, Sam groaned.

"All right, enough. First you're pissed that I checked out Sharpay, now you're pissed that I'm looking at someone else," Dean shot back. "Seriously, Sammy. Make up your mind."

"My mind... might just be too fragile to deal with this right now," Sam replied, but Dean was relieved to see a hint of his usual grin there. Then Sam pulled back and gave him a penetrating look, which had the effect of making Dean just a tiny bit uneasy. "You sure you're okay with this? Ryan, I mean?"

Dean frowned. He drummed his fingers on the table. He looked away in search of the cutie waitress again, idly glanced over at the rowdy pool game going on in the corner, whistled tunelessly for a few seconds... and then eventually wound up right back where he was. "Yeah," he said finally, and massaged the nape of his neck with his fingers. "I mean, you know I don't get it. You _know_ that, Sam," he said firmly, and this time he gave his brother that unyielding stare right back. "He's a guy. Why you'd want to be with another guy, when you already know he's got all the same working parts as you..." Dean shrugged. "I just don't see where's the fun in that. But honestly, I mean, dude. If you picked out an ugly girl? I'd be wondering the same thing, so... yeah, fine."

Sam watched him in silence for a long moment, and Dean caught the way Sam was trying to hold back the smile that was tugging at the corners of his mouth. "So... that's your blessing," he said finally.

"There it is." Dean nodded and refilled his glass, watching as the beer foamed up to the rim.

Now the grin spreading across Sam's face was evil enough to make Dean more than just a little nervous. "And you totally agree with me about his mouth."

"What? Hey, no, I didn't say that," Dean protested, but Sam was shaking his head like Dean had already lost this round. "I said, I noticed what you were talking about. That's all I said! Not that I agree, not that it turns me on, none of that. I _noticed_ , Sammy. I'm observant. That's all!"

"That's all you're admitting to, I understand," Sam said, and his soothing tone of voice sounded like he was agreeing, but Dean knew that was really no agreement at all.

* * *

"Sam, what's the cosine of zero?"

"One," Sam answered automatically, then gave Chad a questioning look. Why the hell was Chad suddenly asking him for math help in homeroom?

"Well, what's the capital of Kansas?" Chad met his stare blandly.

"Topeka," Sam muttered, and raised an eyebrow as Troy turned around in his seat to stare at him too.

"So what's the, um." Troy chewed his lip in thought for a moment. "Molecular weight of carbon?"

"Twelve. What's with all the weird questions all of a sudden?"

"They're trying to figure out why you were held back so many years," Sharpay answered him over her shoulder, without even looking away from the message she was texting. "On account of how you don't seem like a complete mental loss."

Sam hadn't expected to ever be called on that one, and it's not like he had a fake I.D. ready for moments like this. FBI? Yes. ATF? Yes. Legitimate High School Student? ...No. Glancing up, he saw that Ryan was twisted around in his seat and waiting curiously for an answer as well. Shit. "I, ahh. I missed a few years of school, is all," he explained, looking at Chad again. Because the idea of looking Ryan right in the eye and lying made him slightly queasy. "My family was traveling a lot, so it was, like, an outside the curriculum kind of program."

"What, like being home-schooled?"

"Kind of," Sam agreed, grateful to Troy for the straight line. "Only I still need to clock up the actual classroom time for a diploma, you know?" All in all, Sam thought the explanation sounded pretty far-fetched, particularly as he didn't have a friggin' clue what home-schooling entailed. But his classmates seemed to accept it.

"That completely blows," Chad opined. "You'd think that—"

The sudden blare of the fire alarm made everyone jump, and then the classroom dissolved into a blur of students grabbing their backpacks and getting to their feet. Beyond the initial startle, though, no one was moving with any urgency. "Everyone up!" called Ms. Darbus, straining to be heard over the noise. "Move in an orderly fashion, down the stairway, onto the field...."

"Stupid fire drill," Sharpay complained, attempting to shoulder her bag and plug her ears at the same time. Sam hung back a little, waiting for everyone else to clear out and lead the way outside. And he had to smile when he noticed that Ryan was deliberately lingering as well.

"Come, come, Ryan! Mr. Winchester!" Ms. Darbus made a sweeping gesture towards the door, and Sam followed Ryan out. The hallway was a crowded mess of students laughing and trying to be heard over the alarm, making their unhurried way to the stairs. Sam glanced down at a sudden touch to his hand. Ryan squeezed his fingers briefly before letting go, and Sam smiled again, his cheeks flushing slightly. So it seemed he was well and truly forgiven, then, which cheered him almost as much as it panicked him.

"Maybe I could tutor you," Ryan suggested, and Sam looked at him in confusion, wondering if he'd heard right above all the din.

"What?"

Ryan grinned. "You know, to help you catch up with all those years you lost. I've got some time tonight."

"Tonight, huh?" Sam stayed close to Ryan in the crowd as they descended the stairs, and he smiled widely. "Tonight could be really good," he decided. He was about to follow Ryan out the double doors when he suddenly jerked back.

"This way," Ryan said, pointing. "We're supposed to all meet up at the baseball diamond."

"Yeah, but—" Sam's eyes widened and he abruptly changed direction, pushing against the crush of students trying to get outside.

"Sam! What—" Ryan grabbed his arm but didn't try to pull him back, just sped up to keep pace as Sam moved deeper into the building. "Where are you going?"

"Don't you smell that?" Sam asked, taking a deep sniff of the air, a caustic burnt-chemical odor assaulting him. "I think—"

"You two, out! Now!" A teacher abruptly blocked their way and waved his arms frantically in Sam's face. "Go out to the field like you're supposed to!"

"I only just—"

"Clear the way!" A new voice broke into the din, and Sam snapped his head around, then pulled Ryan back with him to get out of the paramedics' path.

"This way, this way," the panicked teacher shouted, turning to rush them down the hall. Sam stared at their retreating backs, and then the blare of the fire alarm cut out just as abruptly as it had started. Its sudden absence left Sam's ears ringing.

"Oh my God," Ryan murmured. "Do you think someone's hurt?" It was a stupid question, the kind so obviously pointless it was only ever asked when the answer was too much to deal with.

"Yeah," Sam answered quietly. "I think so."

* * *

"I heard Jenna Brady's hair caught on fire in chemistry lab."

"What?" Troy's girlfriend stared in horror. Sam never could remember her name. Maybe just because no one ever needed to say it — she seemed to be permanently attached to Troy at the hip anyway, so it wasn't like anyone ever had to go looking for her. "Oh my God, is she okay? Is her face burnt?"

"No, her shirt caught fire," Chad argued, gesturing at Troy with his half-eaten cheeseburger.

"I'm telling you man, it was her hair!" Troy insisted, and Sam rolled his eyes as they kept bickering.

"A piece of paper on the wet bench caught fire, and Jenna poured water on it." A voice of reason broke in, and everyone turned to look at Taylor, even Sam. He'd had enough classes with Taylor to know that she usually knew what she was talking about. "Then the water made the fire flame up bigger, which doesn't make sense at all," she frowned, her brow furrowing like she was still trying to work it through. "Anyway, Jenna's hair wasn't pulled back like it was supposed to be, and it caught fire." Taylor rolled her eyes when Troy slapped Chad on the shoulder. "Of course then her hair brushed her shirt, and that started burning too."

"A-ha!" Chad was triumphant, and Sam suppressed a groan.

"Does anyone know if she'll be all right?" Ryan was standing a little back from the group, like he usually seemed to be. And Sam winced at the real concern he could read on Ryan's face.

"She's burned." Taylor frowned. "I don't think anyone knows how bad yet." One of the girls made a horrified noise and said something about scarring. Troy's girlfriend started talking about how the auditions for the Fall play were coming up and Jenna needed to be there for them, and then Troy jumped into the conversation with a story about his cousin's motorcycle accident.

Sam just shook his head. "It could be nothing," he said quietly, and in spite of the salacious new conversation going on, Ryan and Taylor both turned to look at him. "It really depends. If the fire was mostly just on her hair and her shirt, then she might only have first or second degree burns." Taylor nodded, but Ryan was still watching him anxiously. "She might be okay," Sam told him again, hoping to reassure. Hoping like hell he was right.

Ryan bit his lip and nodded at Sam, but he still looked worried. Sam lifted a hand to touch him, to offer some sort of meager comfort or consolation. Then he faltered and turned away. He walked until he was pretty sure he'd be out of the group's hearing, and then pulled out his phone and hit speed-dial. He waited for two rings, three, then sighed relief when his brother picked up.

"Dean, it's starting."

* * *

The Impala rumbled through the darkness, and Dean pulled it off the road to roll to a stop, sand and loose gravel spitting under the tires. "Fuckin' New Mexico," he muttered. "No fuckin' cover." Sam shrugged but didn't argue — for once. They opened the doors and stepped out, their boots crunching. "And seriously!" Dean continued. "How many damn cactuses does one state need? I mean, enough with the picturesque sunset bullshit already. Give me a friggin' maple and some cicadas or something."

"Cacti," Sam muttered, pulling a large bag of rock salt from the trunk and hitching it over his shoulder.

"What?" Dean tossed a spade into Sam's free hand, then grabbed one for himself. He fished out the sack full of kerosene and tinder - the latter included just in case - then slammed the trunk shut.

"The plural of cactus isn't cactuses," Sam pointed out, and flicked his flashlight on.

Dean stared at his brother. Seriously, could genes between two immediate family members _be_ that bizarrely different? It just didn't make sense. "Eh, what the fuck ever." The flashlight beams wavered as they played over the cemetery's nine foot-high perimeter wall, and Dean blinked in surprise. "I guess they don't get too much grave desecration around here," he murmured, noting the curious lack of barbed wire curls at the top of the stone wall.

Sam snorted a laugh. "Nope. Guess that's our job." He handed the bag of salt over to Dean, then backed up a few steps. One running jump and he was up, grabbing at the stones and heaving himself over, landing on the other side with a soft crunch.

"Friggin' show-off," Dean muttered, then pitched his voice a little louder. "Ready?"

"Ready." Sam's return call was soft but distinct.

Hefting the salt bag, Dean swung back and then tossed it over the wall. The spades sailed over next, one after the other, cutting through the night like spears. The absence of any sudden yelps of pain assured him that everything was cool, so he hitched the sack with the kerosene tighter around his shoulder - no way was he tossing that - then ran, jumped, and caught the top of the wall. "Shit. Sam!"

"Yeah, yeah! I got it," Sam called back, and Dean struggled to keep his hold with his left hand, then chucked the bag over the top into Sam's waiting arms.

"Fuck fuck fuck," he muttered, his muscles straining as the cut rock bricks dug into his palms. He kicked his feet up against the wall and managed to scramble up to the top, then pushed off to the ground without letting himself look down. "Fuck!" he hissed, lurching to his feet and wiping dust from the seat of his jeans. He noticed the way Sam's eyes brightened in the light of the full moon, and he held out a warning finger. "Don't," he commanded, glaring. "Don't even think it." Sam shrugged and turned away, but Dean knew he was grinning. He just knew it.

"Which way?" Sam called back softly, and Dean shifted the sack to his other hand so he could dig the map out of his pocket.

"West," he answered, and looked around for a second to orient himself, then pointed. "That way. There's, like, thirty-five Winslows, all together in the central west corner."

Their boots made no noise, now, silent as they left the path and crossed onto the damp grass. "They must run the sprinklers at night, because of the climate," Sam whispered. "So the moisture doesn't immediately evaporate."

"Thanks, Doctor Science." Dean paused in place and checked his map again, then shone his flashlight off to their left. "Over there." They skirted the circle of the cemetery floodlights' glare, then moved deeper into the dimness. Their flashlights played over row after row of headstones, some marble, some more ordinary cut stone, nearly all of them weathered with time.

"Got it," Sam whispered, and Dean nodded.

"Minerva Alice Winslow," Dean read softly. "Born November twelfth, nineteen thirty-one. Died September eighteenth, nineteen forty-eight." He propped the bags by the headstone and shook out his arms. "Beloved daughter." He sighed, then shrugged. And drove the blade of his shovel into the earth.

It only took them about twenty minutes. They'd been pulling this gig for so long that they had a rhythm going now, knew when to dig in and when to trade off for maximum efficiency. Dean brushed soil from his hands and then trained the flashlight's beam down into the grave where Sam was working, and when Sam's shovel kicked back suddenly, the sound not the soft hush of earth but a solid dull ring, Dean blew out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. Sam looked up, caught his eye. And nodded once before he wrapped both hands around the shaft of his spade, then slammed it straight down with all his strength.

The casket cracked, aged wood splintering and giving way as Sam drove the shovel in, again and again. When he'd wrecked a hole big enough, he tossed the spade up to the grass, then hitched himself out of the grave. Dean aimed the flashlight into the splintered casket, and the beam skated over a skull long stripped of flesh. "East High's finest," he muttered, and watched while Sam poured out the entire ten-pound bag of rock salt into the hole, not just a little, but the whole damn thing. "Overcompensate much?"

Sam frowned, but stilled for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Got to be sure," he murmured.

 _Got to be sure_ , Dean's mind echoed, and he frowned but then nodded. The tension running through Sam's body wasn't just due to the hour, the task, the risk — he always did have a dangerous tendency to get too close. Too involved. And even though Sam hadn't said anything, Dean knew that 'What if?' was looming large in Sam's mind when it came to Ryan. So he sighed but backed off from the remark, waiting while Sam shook out the bag until he was sure it was completely empty. Then he tipped the jug of kerosene down onto the hills of salt, swinging his hand so that the fluid fell in liquid ropes over the corpse. He took a step back as Sam struck a match, carefully leaned forward over the grave, and dropped it into the casket. The fire flared up immediately, tongues of white-hot flame dancing in the grave and bright gold sparks bursting off to float upwards.

Dean capped the empty jug and then wiped his hands off on his jeans before taking a seat on the ground, his back against a neighboring headstone. Sam stuffed the pack of matches into his pocket and then took up a posture mirroring Dean's, his head tipping back against the marble stone opposite his brother, and his eyes slipping shut. They sat in silence for long minutes, the only sounds the popping of the flames and the snapping of sparks. Dean watched the way the flickering wash of light played over Sam's face, half his features lit in bright detail, and half in shadow. And the worry lining his brother's face had a knot of pain throbbing hollowly in Dean's chest. "What do you say we take a break?" he spoke suddenly, and watched as Sam pulled himself out of his slouch to sit upright. "Can't come all the way to the Southwest and not hit Vegas," he explained. "We should take a few days, go rock the casinos, make nice with some showgirls. What d'you say?" He grinned across at his brother.

Sam's mouth twitched, like he couldn't decide whether to smile or frown. "We're not done here," he said eventually.

"What do you mean, not done?" Dean asked, mellow enough at the moment that he didn't even bother getting indignant. "The ghost is toast," he said and gestured towards the still-dancing flames. "I say we're done."

This time, Sam didn't answer. And the look on his face was now definitely a frown.

"Crap," Dean muttered. "Don't tell me you want to say goodbye or some shit."

"I think I should," Sam said stubbornly, and Dean winced. For once, he really hadn't wanted to be right. But _of course_ Sam would want to wrap things up, want that closure which he never got to have anymore, not with Jessica or anyone since. And Sam would hate to leave someone behind, knowing that said someone was still thinking of him. Damn it.

"C'mon, Sammy. You know the goodbyes always suck." Dean sat up straighter, and hooked his arms around his knees. He knew there was no point in trying to change Sam's feelings, and Dean always sucked at the whole Dr. Phil thing anyway. He was just better with cold clean logic. "Just— be happy that he's safe now," he argued, recalling the way Sam had looked at Ryan. "And let it go."

"Right." Sam nodded, but then just like that he was shaking his head. "I blew him off tonight to come torch a dead girl. You think he doesn't even deserve a goodbye?"

"See now, that is _exactly_ why you should just split," Dean argued, wishing Sam would try and avoid pain for once, instead of rushing straight for it. "You think you can ever explain to him what you did tonight? What was so important that he came in second? No way, Sam. That never works, and you know it."

"Some of them understand!" Sam protested, and Dean slashed his hand angrily through the air.

"Some of them understand," he echoed. "After they've nearly been killed by some fuckin' demonic possessed evil monster freak. Never _before_. Don't even tell me you want that shit for Ryan!"

Sam's jaw tightened, and the firelight made little shadows around his mouth, just where his dimples would be if only he'd smile. "I don't want that," he whispered finally. But then his eyes locked on Dean, and he was suddenly every flippin' ounce the fucking stubborn dipshit that Dean just couldn't live without. "But I do want to say goodbye."

* * *

Ryan lay sleepless in his bed and watched the shadows make patterns on the ceiling as the light breeze ruffled the maple trees outside his window. It wasn't easy, growing such ridiculously non-indigenous trees in Albuquerque. It took stubbornness, the willingness to tolerate a gargantuan monthly water bill, and a very well-paid landscaper. Ryan's family had all three. He knew his family was one of the wealthiest in the city, and probably in the state. He didn't make overly much of it, just existed comfortably in the knowledge that any material wants were his for the asking, and the envy of his peers was simply par for the course. He also comprehended, however, that one day it would be his duty to carry on the Evans name, empire, and fortune — and at that time, he would definitely be expected to take all that he'd been given, and spin it into golden skeins of profit.

With a sigh, he shut his eyes, and tried to will himself into sleep. It wasn't working; it never really did. Not for all the yoga he practiced, or all the hours he spent meditating. And what good was all that anyway, if his thoughts still stubbornly insisted on going where they felt like it, without any consultation of his own desires? No, the only thing for it was to muddle on through the sticky mess of his mind, and wait until his body was so completely worn-out that there was simply nothing left to sustain consciousness. Then, he might finally get some sleep.

He'd been exhausted ever since Sam arrived in town.

What was it about Sam Winchester? Ryan couldn't keep himself from wondering. One moment he was mired in a bone-deep crush, the next he felt irritated and snippy, and then in the next he was back to eagerly watching Sam, panting like a puppy and longing for some affection. All that was draining enough on its own, but the overwhelming lust that rushed beneath it all just iced the damn cake. Frowning, Ryan rolled over and shoved at his pillows, trying to mold them into some semblance of comfort. He blew out a breath and glared at his window, raking through his mind for something else - anything else - to think about. The soft trill of his cell phone startled him, and he stared in confusion for a moment before he jerked up and grabbed it from his night table. _Sam_ , read the display. Sam?

"Hello?"

"Ryan, hey! Did I wake you?"

Ryan bit his lip, hoping to hold back the idiotic giddiness that suddenly rose in him. "No. I was up. What's going on?" he asked, glancing aside at his digital bedside clock.

"Um, I was... I was, um. I just—" Sam sighed, his breath suddenly too loud over the line. "I'm sorry I couldn't go out tonight."

Bemused, Ryan half-smiled. "Okay. It's okay, I mean. I guess." He shook his head. "Why are you calling me at two in the morning just to say you're sorry? You didn't think it could wait?"

"No. Well, I— I mean—" Ryan rolled his eyes fondly as he waited for Sam to work his way around to an actual complete sentence. "I just thought, you know, if you were up, then maybe I could see you now."

A beat passed, and Ryan wondered whether he was already asleep and dreaming and just hadn't caught on to it yet. "Now?"

"Yeah." Sam laughed softly, and the sound thrilled through Ryan. "I mean, you're up. After all. Got some time?"

"Well, I—" Ryan clambered out of his bed and looked frantically around, trying to figure out just how one dressed for an impromptu pre-dawn rendezvous. "Do you want me to meet you somewhere?"

"Actually..." Sam's voice trailed off, and then he cleared his throat. "You could just let me in. I'm outside your house."

Ryan's eyes flew wide open, and his stare jerked to the maple tree swaying gently outside his window.

"I mean, not— not that I'm stalking you, or anything! I just... I felt bad, you know?"

That one word pulled Ryan up short, slamming into his gut like a fist. "Bad?" His jaw tightened. "You felt bad for me?"

"No!" Sam's denial was immediate, and it sounded surprised enough to be true. "No, I meant that I felt bad because I really wanted to see you tonight. I just— couldn't."

"Oh," Ryan replied, warmed through once more and already softly making his way down the stairs. He crossed the wide foyer, his bare feet soundless against the thick Aubusson rug, then peered through one of the chiseled glass panes set in the front door. "Just a sec." He quickly stepped to the security console in the wall and punched in the code to deactivate the house alarm. Then he pulled open the front door. "Hey," he said softly, and went to slip his cell phone into his pocket... Which had the result of abruptly reminding him that he didn't currently have any pockets, since he'd worn only his boxer-briefs to bed.

"Hey." Sam's smile was almost shy, and his hands were in _his_ pockets, anyway, and he was standing down at the base of the front steps like he was still unsure of his welcome.

Ryan watched him for a long moment, watched the uncertainty build in his eyes. Then he smiled. "You might as well come in," he murmured, and stepped back into the foyer. He locked the door again behind them, then climbed the stairway back up to the second floor. And he tried like anything not to sweat or trip or otherwise humiliate himself, even though every soft thud of Sam's boots behind him was making his skin crawl with nervousness. They reached the landing and he pushed his bedroom door silently shut behind Sam, then locked that as well before turning to look up, trying to search Sam's eyes in the moonlight.

Sam fidgeted, pulling his hands out of his jacket pockets then stuffing them back in again, like he was jittering with that same nervous energy, and he was just as clueless as Ryan how to handle it.

"I guess you should just admit that you missed me," Ryan teased softly, hoping the brash words would cover for his nerves. But Sam didn't smile, or laugh, or even move. All but for his eyes, which snapped up to stare at Ryan until he was sure he'd start sizzling with the heat rushing at him.

"I missed you," Sam muttered, then grabbed for Ryan and yanked him against his chest. He tangled his fingers in Ryan's hair and dragged his head back, crushing their mouths together until it was all Ryan could do to just hold on and keep from melting. He must have whimpered, must have clutched at the beat-up leather of Sam's jacket and shoved until it was off his shoulders and onto the floor. And it must have been he who fisted his hand in Sam's shirt and yanked him towards the bed, because even though Ryan's mind was a blur he noticed the instant his bare calves hit the bedframe... and then Sam tumbled him back onto the mattress and they rolled until Ryan was straddling him.

"You smell like smoke," Ryan said, wrinkling his nose at the scent reeking from Sam's clothing. He grabbed at Sam's shirt, hitching it up and over his head, then tossing it aside.

"Sorry," Sam whispered back, but Ryan just laughed.

"I really don't care," he murmured, leaning down to lick along Sam's collarbone. That wicked grin winked in the dimness, and Sam's hands slid over Ryan's ass, pulling him in closer, tighter. Ryan moaned as his cock rubbed hard against the ridge of Sam's fly. He sucked in a quick breath when suddenly there were large hands shoving his briefs out of the way, long fingers closing tight around his erection. Sam's hand worked him swiftly, expertly. Ryan shivered and ground against him, rocking into the touches and digging his fingernails into the smooth skin of Sam's chest. He cried out softly in surprise when Sam grabbed his ass, squeezing. And when Sam rose up and set his teeth to Ryan's throat, Ryan lost it, his head dropping back and his breath sobbing out as he shuddered and came all over Sam's fingers.

His head was still spinning as he slowly came to, resting his forehead against Sam's shoulder. Sam was rubbing his back in long soothing strokes and Ryan made a pleased little hum, melting into him. But eventually a nagging thought broke through the velvet haze, and when he shifted position Sam's pained groan reminded him. "Lie back," he whispered, sliding his hands up to push against Sam's shoulders. Sam obeyed, and his breathing hitched when Ryan drew his fingers slowly down his chest, then unzipped his jeans. He slid to his knees between Sam's spread thighs, and then his eyes widened.

"Oh my God," Ryan breathed. "You're huge all over." Sam's reply was a sort of choked laugh, and Ryan grinned. He dipped down to lick at the crown of Sam's cock, tasting salty precome. Licking gradually turned into sucking, enough to tease and arouse but never enough to satisfy, and Ryan had to bite back a triumphant smile when the tiny muscles in Sam's thighs began to vibrate with tension. He shifted lower and sucked hard at the base, allowing his teeth to just barely graze the tender skin. A thrill shot through him when Sam whimpered, finally letting loose that tiny vulnerable sound, and Ryan rose up and took Sam's erection into his mouth.

Sam groaned out loud, the sound abruptly muffled when he bit down on his hand. Ryan hummed, a rumbled sound of pleasure in his throat as he bobbed his head, sucking hard on Sam's cock and wrapping his hand around the base to stroke him off in time. Sam arched beneath him and clutched at his bare shoulders, his fingers gripping spasmodically before he gave up and plunged his fingers into Ryan's hair. And when Ryan took him in as deep as he could again and again, his tongue twisting and teasing around the head, Sam gasped and just barely choked out a warning before his body stiffened and he came hard, come splashing hot and bitter on the back of Ryan's tongue.

Slowly Ryan eased back, chasing stray drops with his tongue until he'd licked Sam clean. When he lifted his head he was surprised to find Sam already drifting, drained and clearly exhausted. Ryan's smile turned smug as he decided he could take some of the credit for that. He grabbed a handful of tissues and did a last bit of clean-up, then stole back one of his pillows and stretched out, Sam's long body warm and heavy against his own. He was asleep before he even knew that he'd shut his eyes.

* * *

Sam woke slowly, his mind hazy and drifting, returning to reality in its own sweet time. He felt warm and lazy, too comfortable to bother moving, but eventually the light streaming into the room had him blinking his eyes open. It was early morning sunlight, gold with a tinge of sunrise pink, gathering more strength as the moments passed. And it shone onto Ryan's sleeping face.

 _Oh my God_. Sam froze, cautious of waking him. Ryan's lips were slightly parted in sleep, his eyelashes pale gold against his cheeks, catching and holding the light. And something lurched in Sam's chest, halting his breathing for a moment. He eased back, slipping his leg from between Ryan's thighs, his arm from beneath Ryan's shoulders. He was still wearing his jeans and boots from the night before, and he winced at the stiffness in his muscles as he grabbed for his t-shirt and his jacket. A quick trip to Ryan's bathroom, and soon he was splashing cold water on his face and scrubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes. He let himself look one last time at the bed, the young man in it, then silently slipped out the bedroom door.

Sam made his way carefully down the stairs, grateful for the thick carpeting which hushed his steps. He glanced aside at the alarm system to check that it was still disarmed before crossing the wide foyer, reaching to open the door, when—

"Stop right there! Put your hands up!"

Freezing in an instant, Sam then slowly put his hands in the air and turned. The order had come from a petite blonde woman framed in the doorway of the formal dining room beyond. A silk dressing gown was knotted around her waist, and her hair was in disarray. Her expression was a rigid mix of anger and terror. She could only be Ryan's mother. And she was pointing a semi-automatic pistol at his chest.

"Up!" she shrieked again, and Sam stretched his arms higher. "Don't try anything! If you think I won't shoot you, you're wrong! How dare you—"

"Ma'am, please," Sam interrupted, hoping to somehow soothe her into calmness. "It's not what—"

"Shut up! You break into my house, you threaten my family. I— I should kill you where you stand!" In Sam's estimation, she was edging dangerously close to hysteria. Her hands were shaking, but her grip on the gun was white-knuckled. And at that range, it would have been hard for her shot to go wide. Offhand, he could think of at least ten different ways of disarming and overpowering her, but none of them would likely give her a good chance of recovery. And really, Ryan's _mother_?

"Mom, no!" Sam's glance shot to the top of the stairs, where Ryan was standing naked but for the bedsheet wrapped around his waist. He was frantically waving at his mother. "Don't! Don't hurt him!"

Mrs. Evans looked confused, but still outraged. And she didn't lower the gun. "What in the name of—?"

" _What_ is all this noise at such an ungodly hour?" Sharpay slammed out of her bedroom and stalked over to the railing, and she summed up the scene with a quick glance. "Oh. It's you," she said, and Sam stifled a groan. "Go ahead, Mom. I say you should shoot him."

"Shar, shut up!" Ryan hissed before scrambling down the stairs. "Mom, please. He's— this is Sam," he said, and he was obviously trying to work his way between them without actually stepping directly into the path of the gun. Circumstances being what they were, Sam had to approve. "He's from— he's my boyfriend," he said weakly, his hands held out in supplication.

Shock bloomed over Mrs. Evans's face, but Sam was hopeful that at least he couldn't find any horror in her expression. "Your boyfriend," she echoed, her tone flat.

"Yes," Ryan said brightly, with forced cheer. "From school."

Another tense moment, then two. And then Mrs. Evans uncocked the pistol and slipped the safety catch back on. Sam nearly sagged with relief. "Well, this is ridiculous, Ryan! What in the world possessed you to have your boyfriend sneaking in at this hour of the morning? And on a school day?"

Ryan blinked as she switched so seamlessly into scolding mode. He shrugged slightly. "Um, he wasn't sneaking in," he explained, his cheeks suddenly burning with color. "He was sneaking out."

"Oh, _God_ ," Sharpay exclaimed, and Ryan glared up at her.

Mrs. Evans seemed to echo the sentiment with a roll of her eyes. "This is _not_ how I'd prefer to meet your young man," she chided her son, and then – with not a hitch in her rhythm – she held out her hand to Sam. "Derby Evans. It's lovely to meet you." Her smile was so lasered white and dentist-perfect it nearly blinded him. And Sam struggled not to choke on the sheer absurdity of the moment.

"Nice to meet you too, Ma'am," he managed to murmur, and gently clasped her hand for an instant.

"Mother!" Sharpay's outraged shriek wrenched all their attention to her. "This is so unfair! You don't let me have boys stay over, why does Ryan get to?"

"Sharpay, enough," Mrs. Evans replied firmly. "We'll discuss this in private later." Her gaze snapped to Ryan. "And don't think this lets you off the hook, young man. We _will_ be having a conversation of our own."

"Yes, Mother," Ryan murmured, but his body language didn't match his demure tone at all, and he snuck a quick grin at Sam.

"That's not fair! You know they were having sex!" Sharpay continued her tirade, clambering down the stairs to follow her mother deeper into the house.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sam turned to Ryan. "Thanks," he said softly. He gestured down the hallway where Mrs. Evans had disappeared. "That— that's actually never happened to me before."

"I wouldn't think so," Ryan said with a laugh. His eyes sparkled with a teasing glint. "Maybe next time, you should just climb out the window."

"Right." Sam ducked his head on a smile, and combed a hand through his hair. "Next time. Um."

"Yeah." Reaching out, Ryan took Sam's wrist, tilting his head to read his watch. "I have to get ready for school," he murmured, and stepped in closer. Then he wrinkled his nose. "And you need some clean clothes."

"I do, right." _Idiot_ , Sam scolded himself. "I need to go."

"I know. But you can kiss me first." Ryan tilted his head back and looked Sam in the eye, waiting.

Sam swallowed nervously, and glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone; he really wasn't feeling lucky enough to test Mrs. Evans's mercy twice in one morning. Leaning down, he brushed a quick kiss over Ryan's lips, but then couldn't resist going back for a longer one. "I have to leave," he whispered.

"I'll see you soon," Ryan whispered back, and Sam mentally kicked himself. This was really not the moment to be explaining that he was leaving town altogether. Job done, case closed.

"Um... right," he replied, his courage failing him utterly. "See you soon."

* * *

“Partner up, everyone!” Mr. Kelvin clapped his hands and started pointing, collecting pairs into groups and then dispersing them to the individual courts marked off throughout the gym. Ryan suppressed a groan but obediently shuffled over to the other kids who inevitably always found themselves picked last for sports teams. It was a weird kind of camaraderie, desultory but loyal all the same.

Maybe it had been a foolish hope he’d had, thinking that perhaps he wouldn’t feel so isolated the next time there was any sort of partner-type thing in gym class... after all, maybe Sam would stand alongside him, and he wouldn’t look so stupidly awkward and cast out for once. It’s not like it would be a unified Declaration of Gayness, or anything — no one would be able to tell that they were anything more than indifferent acquaintances, on the same volleyball or relay team purely by chance. Ryan had tact, and timing, and a sense of delicacy; he was hardly about to drop to his knees on the polyurethaned floor and just suck Sam off in front of everyone, tacky gym shorts and all.

Although the idea certainly had merit.

But damn it all, where _was_ Sam? Ryan had seen him just that morning, and he hadn’t seemed the slightest bit sick then. Far from it actually, Ryan recalled, and he couldn’t bite back the wicked grin of memory that curved his lips. He had wondered about it when Sam had been absent from homeroom, not that he’d been practically quivering with excitement while he waited for Sam to arrive, or anything. Okay, so he had been doing _exactly_ that, but who could blame him? It had been a hell of a night. Sam had materialized on his balcony – okay, his front doorstep – like Romeo emerging secretly from the night, Prince Charming scaling the castle wall to rendezvous with his Rapunzel. Lukas Ridgeston conveniently appearing out of nowhere to rescue a stranded Johan Paulik from his flat tire, complete with a really really big jack. Not that Ryan thought about Lukas – sensuous Czech accent and all – all that much these days. He'd found out fast that a heavy dose of Sam Winchester tended to narrow one's focus.

Mr. Kelvin blew his whistle and Ryan glanced at his partner, a girl he recognized from his trigonometry class as someone who tended to speak up even less often than he did. Good enough; Ryan doubted he'd have to deal with any killing competitive spirit from her, and maybe they would both be able to slide by on a coordinated tide of bored laziness. It was to be badminton today, surely one of the stupidest gym class sports ever created. Although Ryan recalled all too well the square-dancing unit they'd had to endure in elementary school. As much as he'd adored dance even then, having to hold hands and promenade with a roomful of grubby cootie-paranoid ten year-olds had been a punishment too terrible to contemplate.

He picked up his racket and gave it a couple practice swings, then rolled his eyes as Troy and Chad teamed up on the other side of the net. "Come on, Evans!" Chad called, a wide smile on his face as he tossed the birdie in the air and caught it without even taking his eyes off Ryan. "If I can do this, then you can do that!"

"Yeah, whatever," Ryan mumbled, but couldn't help smiling in return. Chad was pretty okay. And Troy didn't have enough non-Gabriellacized brain cells left to be much of a threat to anyone.

The whistle blew again and Chad served, the birdie arcing perfectly over the net and landing on the floor at Ryan's partner's feet. What was her name, anyway? Josie? Jody? Something with a J, he was pretty sure, and when she served the birdie straight into the net, she just shrugged and shot him a crooked smile. _Good attitude_. Ryan smiled back, and tossed the birdie across to Troy for his serve. And he absently put his hand to his throat, skimming his fingertips over the faint bruise Sam had left there last night.

The game continued, the score absurdly uneven as expected, but even über-jocks Chad and Troy had a hard time keeping up any sort of bloodthirsty competitiveness when it was so obvious that their opponents simply _didn't care_. So they began to loosen up, goofing around and starting to deliberately fumble, and things truly began to feel kind of fun. Ryan laughed when Chad showed off by hitting a perfect serve from his knees, and with extreme willpower he actually managed to avoid making a single one of the obvious comments running through his mind. Because, really. Chad on his knees? There was just so much to be said for that. And with the whole tone of the game so relaxed, Ryan bothered to put a tiny bit of effort into it, smirking at the surprise on his opponents' faces when he served up a drive that they couldn't even return.

Troy grabbed the birdie and threw it back, making a show of getting into proper defensive position. "All right, Evans!" he called, grinning. "I dare you to do it again!" Ryan grinned back, and tossed the birdie once, catching it in his hand before pulling back to serve. The toss was ideal, the swing perfectly timed, and the birdie shot over the net into a zone left unguarded, Chad and Troy running for it both at once.

Ryan laughed aloud as Troy damn near tripped Chad, preventing either of them from making a save. He glanced aside to find Jody-or-something smiling as well, then he blinked as a sudden shock of pain hit him square in the chest. He lifted a hand to try and rub the ache away, but the next flare dropped him to his knees, a giant fist squeezing him so tight he couldn't even breathe.

"Ryan, your serve again!" Chad called, tossing the birdie back. It bounced lightly off Ryan's shoulder and Ryan dropped to his hands and knees, struggling to catch his breath.

"Ryan?" He was vaguely aware of Judy - Judy, that's it - crouching down beside him, Troy ducking under the net to kneel by him as well, but their voices were blurred in his ears, drowned out by the pounding rush of his blood. Mr. Kelvin blew another whistle blast - _God I hate that whistle_ \- and then things just got confusing, someone roughly shoving him to his back on the hard floor so that he was staring blankly up at the glaring gymnasium lights, the figures crowding around to stare down at him now just dark faceless blurs. Ryan could feel each individual bead of cold sweat gathering on his skin.

"What's wrong with him? Did he get hit with a racket?" The voices bounced meaninglessly off his ears.

"Is he okay?"

"Should we do CPR?"

"I'll do it, I know how!" _That_ was a voice Ryan knew; after all these years, Becky Rowan still hadn't figured out that he was gay.

“You don't do CPR on someone who's still got a pulse, dumbass!" It sounded like Chad. Had he had emergency medical training? He'd make a hot lifeguard....

"Quiet, everyone!" Mr. Kelvin leaned over him, calling his name, waving his hand in front of Ryan's face. It was fucking annoying. And why tell everyone to be quiet when he was yelling so damn loudly? Thick fingers prodded at his throat, and oh god he was so cold. But finally the pressure squeezing his chest started to ease. It didn't just ease, it disappeared, and he was drifting, he was floating, the dull roar of gym class fading into nothingness until only one voice got through, made sense, sounding like nothing he'd ever heard...

 _Find me_.

* * *

Lynyrd Skynyrd poured from the speakers and Dean rocked along, his head bobbing in time with the music as the Impala sped west, leaving Albuquerque in the desert dust—and East High with it. He figured it was a damn good thing that he'd finally caved and gone to the trouble of upgrading the car's sound system... because otherwise the taut silence just then would have been friggin' _killing_ him. 

The song hurtled to an end and Dean glanced over at Sam. Then he wished he hadn't. Because this wasn’t just the elephant in the room, it was taking over the whole damn car. "Look," he said, reaching out to turn down the volume as the next song started up, Bob Seger bragging about his night moves. "It's not like you two even had much in common, you know? I mean, you've met a ton of girls on the road that you would've been, I don't know, more compatible with or whatever." 

"Oh yeah?" Sam actually didn't sound all that doubtful, which gave Dean hope. Maybe a lazy pointless argument was just what they needed to break up the tension. "Like who?" 

"Um...." Dean trailed off and chewed on his lower lip for a few seconds. "That widow in Connecticut? Serious MILF action. Or that girl in New York, you know, from the auction house." 

"Sarah," Sam said, rubbing his eyes. 

"Yeah, her!" Dean agreed, then whistled appreciatively. "Man, she had great tits." He glanced over again, just in time to catch Sam rolling his eyes. 

"And you're saying that's what we had in common? Our stunning tits?" 

"Shut up, man, don't be sick. I mean she was all brainy and anal retentive like you. Ryan...." Dean frowned in exasperation, and his fingers flexed against the steering wheel. "For one thing, you know Ryan was too young for you, eighteen or not. Plus, he thought you were normal, which we both know is so not true. And he's a total geek, and you're... okay, so that fits." He sighed, then stubbornly pressed on. "But different kinds. I mean, you're an absolute nerd, granted, but he's, what, a drama geek? And you never even—oh wait." Dean's frown deepened as he realized that he was now completely bypassing Sam and just arguing with himself. "You did do _Our Town_ , you freak. And I'm pretty sure you cried." 

"One play, Dean. _One_ high school play," Sam retorted, and Dean nodded vehemently. 

"Exactly, see! That's my whole point." He shook his head as Sam muttered something under his breath about how there'd been no crying whatsoever. "I don't know what you two even found to talk about." 

Silence stretched between them, the only noise the purr of the engine. Dean snuck a look at Sam, and then he grinned momentarily at the thought that maybe he'd won this one after all. 

"It doesn't matter," Sam said eventually, and slouched deeper into his seat. And as much as Dean was pissed off about the reason, he couldn't convince himself that it really made much difference—he just hated seeing Sam like this, frilly heterosexuality-threatening blond or not. He waited for Sam to say something more, _anything_ more to continue the argument, but apparently his brother was too dejected even for that. 

It completely sucked.

Dean frowned again, his brow furrowing. And when his cell phone rang he didn't even check to see who it was; grateful for the distraction, he just dug it out of his pocket and flipped it open. "Yeah, hello?" 

"Dean!" The irate female voice in his ear had him flinching involuntarily. "Where the hell is your brother?" 

"Huh?" Now Dean did check the display, holding the phone up and groaning silently at what he found. _Ryns hot sis_. "Um. Why?" 

"Because he's not _here_ , and he _should_ be," Sharpay snapped. 

"Well, things are pretty busy today," Dean said slowly, and forced himself to not look over at Sam. He definitely didn't want him knowing who was on the other end of the line. "Important stuff." 

" _Screw_ that! I'm not in love with the idea either, but he's Ryan's boyfriend. So he should be with Ryan right now!" 

Dean winced at that – _really Sammy, boyfriend?_ – then wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he could put both hands on the wheel, taking the car around a curve as they began to climb the foothills outside Flagstaff. And he wondered if maybe the sudden phone call had anything to do with Sam walking in past dawn that morning. "Uh. Why?" 

"Because he's in the hospital! Don't tell me you don't even know that!" 

Dean's jaw dropped. The phone slipped and he made a quick grab for it, and this time he _did_ glance at Sam, a quick look which revealed him listening in on Dean's half of the conversation with nothing more than mild curiosity. _Good_. "I didn't," he said firmly, his jaw tightening. "What happened?" 

"What _happened?_ " Sharpay's voice was damn near a screech now, and Dean was starting to be glad he'd never gotten the chance to take her out after all. "He had a fucking heart attack in gym class, that's what happened!" 

" _What?_ " 

"Badminton!" she shouted back. "Of all the stupid—it just does not fucking make sense! The gym teacher had to do CPR, and he's in cardiac ICU, and... Eighteen year-old boys do not have heart attacks," she insisted. "Especially not eighteen year-old _athletes_." 

Blinking, Dean tried to recall every detail of his brief meeting with Ryan, but all he could remember was big blue eyes and a ridiculous green hat. "Your brother's an athlete?" he asked Sharpay in disbelief. 

"He's a dancer!" she exclaimed passionately. 

"Yeah, but. You said he's an athlete." He winced at her growl of response. _Okay, touchy subject._

"Do _not_ get me started," she warned him. "Just tell Sam to get his ass over here. Right now they're running a zillion tests on Ryan to figure out what the hell went wrong, but when he gets home Sam'd better be here.” She paused to draw a deep breath. “Or I will personally beat the shit out of him." 

Dean was impressed in spite of himself. "You think so?" 

"Yes!" Sharpay was still sniping, but the weird tone of her voice was starting to worry Dean, like maybe she was holding back tears or something. _God. Please. No._ "He's been through enough today," she insisted, and now Dean was sure, and his stomach did a queasy little roll. "The last thing he needs is to think that his boyfriend ran off or something." 

"Yeah, why the hell would his boyfriend do something like that," Dean muttered, and glanced at Sam again. Sam, who was _definitely_ paying close attention now. "No, nothing," he said in answer to Sharpay's indignant squeak. "I'll go tell him now," he said, and hung up. 

"What the hell was that?" Sam sat up straight in his seat once again. He snatched the phone right out of Dean's hand and flipped it open again to check through the recent contacts. " _Sharpay_ just called you." 

Groaning under his breath, Dean yanked the car across two lanes and took the next exit. "Yeah," he muttered, absently flipping the finger at an irate driver he’d just cut off. "She said Ryan's hurt." Slowing down, he made a U-turn and then got back on the highway. Heading east this time. 

"Hurt?" Sam repeated the word like he didn't know what it meant. Dean glanced over to find his brother's face etched with stunned panic. "How hurt? What happened?" 

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ Dean really didn't want to tell the truth. Telling the truth would give the news validity, credibility, and it was still one of the craziest things Dean had ever heard, spilling into a whole oceanful of insanity. "She said he had a heart attack," he mumbled. 

" _What?_ " 

"A heart attack," Dean insisted, louder this time. "You know, cardiac arrest. In gym class. He's in the hospital." 

"But that's—that’s just—" Sam couldn't finish speaking the thought, and Dean just shook his head and waited for him to grasp it all. "That's absurd. That doesn't even make sense." 

"Yeah." There was really no point in arguing. Particularly as Dean had already acknowledged the sheer _wrongness_ of the whole situation in the moment he'd turned the car around. "Something's not right." 

"Something's not right," Sam insisted stubbornly, as if Dean had just contradicted him or something. "I mean, that's like— it’s like—“ 

_It’s like Minnie’s still around._ Dean looked at Sam. He watched the shock on Sam's face blossom into unwilling comprehension.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly. "Something went wrong." 

* * *

They'd raced back to Albuquerque, barely edging past a speed trap on Interstate 10, and Dean hadn't grumbled once about taking Sam straight to the Heart Hospital of New Mexico. Although he did point out that maybe UNM's medical school hospital might be worth checking, but no way; Sam was certain the Evanses weren't about to let Ryan even get breathed on by a plain old _resident._ It had been a blessing that Dean was there to calm Sam down when he asked for Ryan at the nurse's station and got the partyline 'He's not a registered patient here, Mister.' Sam nearly went apoplectic, and it was a few extremely tense minutes before Dean managed to get the elaboration that Ryan wasn't a patient because he actually _wasn't there_ , and not because he'd been kicked down to the morgue.

Calling Sharpay hadn't been a barrel of fun either, but at least she'd told them where they should go looking.

It was nearly ten o’clock that night before the Impala purred up to the Evans’ estate, and Sam was already opening the door when Dean grabbed his shoulder, holding him back. Then he smacked his EMF meter into Sam’s palm.

“Dean, what the hell?” Sam frowned down at the meter, then looked at his brother in bafflement.

“You need to check Ryan,” Dean answered. “Check him, check his rooms, check the clothes he was wearing this morning, everything.”

Sam’s confused expression turned into disgust. “What— you’re telling me you think _he’s_ haunted now?”

Dean shrugged. “It’s possible. And we need to know for sure if when the spirit attacked him, it actually attached itself to him in some way.”

“...And if it did?” Sam asked, his jaw set tight with tension.

“And if it did, then... then we’ll need to take care of it,” Dean replied, meeting his brother’s stubbornness head-on with his own.

“Take care of it,” Sam echoed, his voice flat in the instant before he snapped. “I’m not going to shoot him full of rock salt, Dean! And I’m not letting you burn him alive, either!”

“I’m not asking you to— Sam, wait!” But the car door was already slamming shut, Dean’s words bouncing harmlessly off Sam’s back as he stalked away. “Just be careful!”

Sam shook his head and kept walking. Dean was right; he knew that. But that didn’t mean that he had to like it.

He strode up the long curving driveway, slipping the EMF meter out of sight and into his back pocket. Landing on the Evans' doorstep, he then did one last quick comb-through of his hair with his fingers and smoothed down his shirt. And, on second thought, he swallowed his gum before he rang the doorbell.

"Sam! How nice of you to visit." Ryan's mother's words were gracious, her manners flawless; Sam could easily picture her holding court on a sinking ship and not looking the least bit ruffled. But he knew he wasn't just imagining the strain in her eyes. 

"Hi, Mrs. Evans," he murmured, ducking his head automatically, as if it would somehow make his height less imposing. "Is Ryan here? Could I see him?"

"Of course." She stepped back and gestured him into the wide foyer, then closed and locked the front door behind him. "He's..." she fluttered a hand skyward. "He's upstairs in his room. Watching television, I think. _Please_ don't let him overdo," she added, reaching out to place her hand on Sam's arm. "He insisted on coming home. And the doctors, they..." she trailed off, and frowned.

"They couldn't find anything wrong," Sam hazarded, watching her closely.

"Well, yes. They couldn't," she confirmed. "They have no idea what happened to cause... well, you already know." Her voice quavered slightly as she spoke the words, and she visibly struggled to maintain her composure. "But I know he's tired, no matter how much he insists that he's fine. You'll take care of him, won't you?"

She looked beseechingly up at him, and Sam nearly buckled under the weight of her gaze. How many times had he experienced moments like this one? A moment in which he was faced with taking on the burden of keeping someone safe— safe from forces they had no clue about, and he had no certainty he could beat.

"Yes, Ma'am," he murmured, and added a nod. "I will."

His steps were nearly soundless against the thick carpeting, and when he got to Ryan's door he hesitated a moment, his hand hovering. An instant of eternity before he gathered his courage and knocked.

"Come in." The voice through the door was faint but recognizable, and Sam pushed open the door. The bedroom was shadowed in night gloom, erratically lit by the flash of the plasma TV screen on the wall. Ryan looked even paler than usual in the harsh wash of light, but Sam's heart jumped in his chest anyway, and he finally let himself feel a tiny bit relieved: Ryan was alive. It had been a close call, but they'd made it through.

Sam just wished he could believe – if only for an evening – that the nightmare was actually over.

"Hey." Ryan pushed himself up from where he was lying slouched against the sofa cushions, and pointed the remote control to pause the film he'd been watching. "Where— I didn't..." his voice trailed off, and Sam winced guiltily.

"I had to take care of some stuff today," he replied, answering the unasked question. He shut the door softly behind him, and then crossed the room to sit down next to Ryan, reaching out to trail his fingers in a whisper over Ryan's cheek. "I heard I missed a big day."

"That's an understatement." Ryan turned his head to nuzzle into the touch, a careless caress that made Sam's throat tighten. He looked weak, unquestionably so. But even so, Sam was pretty sure that most people didn't just walk out of the hospital the same day they'd had a heart attack.

To him, that was just one more clue of how _wrong_ everything was.

"How are you feeling now?" Sam's voice was soft in the dimness.

Ryan shrugged. "Just tired, mostly. But don't tell my mom that," he added. "She's freaking out enough already. She even called my dad in Japan and asked him to come home early from his business trip."

Sam nodded, but withheld comment. For something like that, he thought there just might not be _enough_ of freaking out. "So, what are you watching?" he asked after a long moment of silence passed between them. He looked quizzically at the flat-screen, then laughed when he recognized the film. " _Fight Club?_ Are you serious?"

"It's one of my favorites," Ryan answered. "Why, what were you expecting? _Hello, Dolly?"_

Sam grinned, and shrugged. "Maybe," he replied. " _Singin' in the Rain_ , at least."

Ryan's lips curved in a smile. "Gene Kelly was hot and he had undeniable class, I'll give you that," he agreed. "But Edward Norton is fierce."

"Fierce, huh?" Sam shook his head, his smile lingering. He settled deeper into the sofa cushions, and slipped his arm around Ryan's shoulders. "Want some company?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Ryan murmured, curling up against Sam's chest. He breathed a kiss along the line of Sam's jaw, and grinned when Sam's breath caught. "If I tell you I get disturbed by graphic representations of violence, will you distract me?"

"No way," Sam said firmly. "I'm not doing anything that will get your heart racing tonight."

Ryan grumbled softly but didn't argue, just settled back and grabbed for the remote to start the movie up again. "Tomorrow, then."

* * *

Sam might well have discounted his words as plain flirting or just wishful thinking, but Ryan had been completely serious. Serious enough that when he woke in the velvet darkness before dawn to find Sam wrapped around him, long warm limbs keeping him close and safe, he decided that _tomorrow_ had definitely already arrived — sunrise or not.

A smile crept onto Ryan's lips as he gently nudged back, feeling Sam's morning wood pressing hard against the curve of his ass. And his smile changed into a smirk. He turned in the circle of Sam's arms and lay on his side, then let his fingertips whisper over those gorgeous lips before he slipped his hand between their bodies. He was already hard as well – hell, the power of suggestion alone would have done it, and the reality was _so_ much better – and Ryan moaned softly as he closed his hand around their erections and began slowly stroking.

Sam muttered something unintelligible in his sleep and hitched his hips, pushing his cock deeper into the circle of Ryan's fingers. When a bead of precome welled up Ryan stole it, smearing the scant moisture on his skin. He licked at the hollow of Sam's throat, soaking up his nearness, his scent, his strength. It was good, so good, a flash of heat tingling up his spine with every slide of Sam's cock against his. But it wasn't enough. Ryan's hips started bucking, moving insistently against Sam until he was pressing his face to Sam's shoulder, muffling his cry when he came.

His fingers were slick now, hot and slippery and suddenly Sam's hand closed over his, rubbing faster, harder. Sam growled low in his throat and pushed Ryan to his back against the bed, thigh bracing between his knees. Ryan watched hungrily as Sam rose up over him in the twilight, his muscles straining. And he could only whimper as Sam stiffened, shuddered, then buried his groan in Ryan's mouth. 

The kiss changed then, turned softer, less demanding. More searching. Sam didn't speak and Ryan was glad for it, too mind-melted to try and form words anyway. And surely this was better, curling his hand around Sam's nape to pull him in deeper, both of them ignoring the sticky mess they'd made.

Ryan was way too blissed out to care. 

* * *

Back in school the next morning, Sam could barely keep from jumping out of his skin, mellowing effects of sleepy sex or not. He was just too off-balance, worried for Ryan, on edge watching for the slightest hint of danger. And his mind churned in overdrive, raking over every single clue he and Dean had found, every scrap of information they'd scoured up. Where had they gone wrong? Minnie had been murdered, and ever since then she'd been haunting the students of East High. So they had dug up her grave, and salted and burned her bones. If they couldn't lay her soul to rest – Sam certainly hoped that they could, but he and Dean were just never quite sure on that point – at the very least they could prevent her from hurting another student. His quick and surreptitious sunrise scan of Ryan, his clothes, his room, his hats... all of it, his meter had revealed it all to be totally free of EMF activity. Dean was going to get a hell of an _I told you so_ , but really Sam was just beyond relieved to find out that the young man wasn't haunted. 

So what had they missed?

The idea that Ryan's heart attack had been caused by purely natural causes was unthinkable, and if—

"Sam! The imperfect aspect of _terreo_ , please."

"Huh?" Sam looked up to find his Latin teacher waiting expectantly. "Ahh, _teremus_ ," he fumbled, and she gave him a look of surprise.

"No. Try again."

He stared at her blankly, distracted and agitated and – to tell the truth – more than a little pissed off that this crotchety relic was calling him on his _Latin_ skills, of all things. " _Terrerris._ "

"No," the teacher insisted, and shook her head. "You're disappointing me this morning. I'm sure we'd all appreciate it if you'd put a little effort into your homework tonight."

She turned to target another student, leaving Sam gaping. "Disappointing you?" he hissed incredulously, and the teacher turned back to him in irritation. But before she could fire another shot, Sam's cell phone started to blare the chorus of “Eye of the Tiger” loud and clear. He jumped and fumbled in his pocket, barely listening to the scolding this fetched him. _Dean._ "Yeah, sorry," Sam said, standing up and grabbing his backpack. "I'm going straight to the principal's office, absolutely," he called back over his shoulder, and was out the door in an instant.

He jogged down the hallway and then ducked into the boys' bathroom, flipping open his phone as he headed for the last stall. "Dean, what'd you find?"

"The coroner's report," Dean answered, his voice on the line thin but clearly irritated. "That's what I found."

"What?" Sam shook his head, struck stupid with bafflement. "Whose?"

"Minnie's, you idiot! I found the fucking coroner's report, with all the details of her autopsy." Dean huffed out an angry breath, filling Sam's ear with static. "The newspaper was right. She really was stabbed to death."

Comprehension dawned slowly, acceptance staggering a full step behind it. "No," Sam said, wincing. "That's not right. That'd mean—"

"We torched the wrong body, Sam!" Dean shouted, his frustration going head-to-head with his brother's denial. "Minnie's not the one who's been killing the kids." 

Sam's eyes slipped shut in despair. "Oh, fuck," he whispered. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"Yeah, fuck fuck fuck," Dean snapped. "Agreed. Now wake up, Sam! Those kids are in danger, and we don't know who to hunt!"

"Right," Sam breathed, and rubbed a hand hard over his eyes in an attempt to focus. "Dad's journal—"

"Dad's journal doesn't give us squat," Dean cut in. "I looked. We've got to start over. There's another spirit at that school, and we've got to find it. And Sam, something else," he added, his voice losing some of its aggravated edge, but none of its urgency. "I cross-checked the school's newspapers with the death records. The murder victims? Every single one of them had been hurt in the week before their deaths, in those sentinel events." He paused, letting that sink in. "Sammy, you've got to get Ryan out of there. And that other kid too, that girl who got burned."

"Damn it," Sam spat out, and slammed the bathroom door back open. "She hasn't come back to school yet, I heard some kids talking about her this morning," he replied, already swiftly making his way back down the hall to the stairwell.

"Good. Get out, Sam," Dean insisted. "Both of you."

"Got it," Sam muttered, hanging up. He slipped his cell back into his pocket and counted down the row of classrooms, covertly peeking into a few of the windows. Coming to a halt, he then leaned against a bank of lockers, attempting to slow his breathing, calm himself. It didn't work, but he kept trying anyway, inhaling, exhaling, checking his watch every few seconds, counting down in his head until _finally_ —

The bell rang, signaling the end of the class period, and doors flew open up and down the hallway. Students noisily poured out of the classrooms, and Sam stood to the side of a doorway, waiting. He was grateful for once that he towered over everyone, had an unhampered view of everything. And the second Ryan stepped out of his class Sam collared him, pulling him aside.

"Hey! What—" 

"Let's get out of here," Sam interrupted, towing Ryan down the hallway, pulling him around knots of students and not even bothering to shorten his long stride so that Ryan could keep up.

"Okay, but— what— Sam!" They broke into the daylight of the front courtyard and Ryan tugged his arm away, digging his heels in so that Sam would stop. "What is going on with you?"

Sam gritted his teeth and tried to come up with a plausible explanation. And he got... nothing. "It's a nice day," he said finally, "let's go do something fun."

"Something fun," Ryan repeated in a monotone, looking at him like he was just buckets of crazy. "Of course. Because you seem like you're in a really fun mood right now, definitely."

"Look, Ryan, I just— I don't want you here today," Sam exclaimed, throwing up his hands in frustration.

"You...? Okay. What?" Ryan dropped his messenger bag to the concrete, and folded his arms across his chest in a pose that clearly said he was going to damn well wait until Sam managed to contrive a good excuse.

 _Great, of all the times to get stubborn..._ Sam sighed. Then he shrugged, like it was nothing. "I missed you yesterday," he said brightly. "Let's go make up for it, or something."

"Right." Ryan's expression gave that stupid explanation all the dubiousness it deserved. "All right... look, I'm as happy as the next guy to skip school and hang out with my hot boyfriend." He paused and appeared to replay his words in his head, then amended, "The next gay guy, anyway. But you're not selling this really well."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Selling it?"

"Yeah. Sam, your body language isn't exactly screaming oodles of fun here," Ryan pointed out, waving his hands in the air like that would help make his point. "So, do you want to just tell me what it is that's bothering you?"

Sam's jaw tightened, and he looked away for a moment, squinting into the sunshine before turning back to meet Ryan's eyes directly. "I... I think your life might be in danger."

The silence that followed his confession was near deafening, giving Sam plenty of opportunity to regret attempting actual honesty for once.

"Okay." Ryan frowned in disbelief. Then he nodded once, and gave Sam a bright plastic smile. "For future reference, the phrase, 'Ryan, I want to cut school and have crazy sex with you on the dining room table' would be totally sufficient."

Swallowing hard, Sam tried to sort through the mess of relief and fear and sudden intense lust to see his way clear to some sort of sensible non-idiotic response. "Ryan, I want to cut school and have crazy sex with you," he murmured haltingly, and felt his cheeks heating up. "But not at your house." 

"Your place is fine," Ryan answered promptly, throwing Sam's mind into a whole new riot of complications, because seriously, his motel room? _Not. Possible._ But before he could start stammering out new excuses, Ryan rescued him. "But first... do something for me?"

"Huh?" Sam snapped his attention back into place to find Ryan looking at him with that smile of his, that impossible mix that was part sweet, part devious. All irresistible. "Anything."

* * *

"No. No way."

"Come on, Sam," Ryan murmured, reaching up to stroke his fingers along the strong line of Sam's jaw. "Please?"

But Sam wasn't even looking at him; his attention was fixed on the expensive salon, the doorways to the lush spa rooms beyond, the stylist waiting obsequiously before them. "Absolutely not."

"But you've got such gorgeous eyes!" Ryan protested gently, linking his fingers with Sam's and forcibly turning his boyfriend to look at him. "And people hardly ever get to see them."

Sam seemed to relax a bit, and gazed down at him with that single-minded focus Ryan had caught the leading edge of a few times. That look that always made his insides squirm, in that deliciously excited way. " _You_ see them," Sam pointed out.

"Yeah, and they always get me hot," Ryan murmured, delighted when Sam's cheeks flushed.

"And... that's what you want for the rest of the world? Really?"

Ryan shrugged. "A little envy can be a really fun thing," he suggested, "you know. When it's someone else's." Sam rolled his eyes and Ryan chuckled. "Okay, so don't do it for me. Just do it for yourself, then, because you'll be making even more of what you've got."

"Why would I want to do that?" Sam asked, and Ryan had to shake his head because _really_ , Sam needed to ask such a question?

"Your gayness is so anorexic," he muttered. "It's in danger of disappearing altogether." Ryan chewed on his lower lip a moment, and decided, "I think it must be Dean's fault."

"Wait, what?" Sam pulled back to look at him in concern. "What's this got to do with Dean?"

"Nothing," Ryan rushed to reassure him, "it was just a joke, Sam. And this—" he pulled his hand out of Sam's grasp and waved expansively at the salon, "is just a haircut."

"No. No, it's not. At any rate, it's not mine," Sam insisted. "Seriously, Ryan! I don't look good with short hair. Just let it go."

Ryan sighed. The whole brick wall thing was starting to get really old. "Short hair works for everyone," he explained patiently. "It's long hair that's hard to pull off. You just get a good haircut, and then all you'll need is regular trims—"

"Maybe you haven't noticed this yet, but I'm really not the 'regular trim' type—"

" _Fine_ ," Ryan grated through his teeth, and then quickly grabbed Sam's shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss, just to shut him up while he could. He eased back with a last lick to Sam's lips, and soaked up the dazed look in those green eyes.

They really were gorgeous.

"We'll just move onto clothes, and forget this ever happened," he told Sam in a whisper, ignoring the way the stylist was suddenly watching them with just a little _too_ much interest.

Sam blanched. "Clothes?"

"Clothes," Ryan repeated firmly, and took hold of Sam's hand. "Or we're staying right here and you're getting a facial."

"Clothes it is."

* * *

"Not that one, too bland. Something with more color," Ryan ordered, completely ignoring the way Sam was frantically shaking his head.

"No color, really!" Sam pleaded with the departing attendant. Ryan tsked in affectionate exasperation, and had to smile.

"Sit down, Sam," he urged, placing his palm dead-center of Sam's chest and walking him back into a Louis XIV-style armchair. Sam's legs folded and he sat down heavily, and Ryan seized the opportunity to climb into his lap, straddling his thighs.

"Ryan, you're—" Sam's gaze darted around the vast room in paranoia. "You're sitting on my lap in a public place," he hissed.

"Yes, and everyone in here is jealous," Ryan replied, with what he considered to be impermeable logic. As if the ritzy boutique and its employees cared about anything beyond the shine on his credit card, anyway. "And you," he said, rubbing his thumb over Sam's lower lip, "are unbelievably cute when you're flustered."

" _Ryan!_ "

"Shhh," Ryan soothed, "I promise this won't hurt a bit." Another shopgirl appeared, her arms laden with shirts, and Ryan brightened. "Ooh, yes! The crimson is good."

"The crimson is not good— "

"It's perfect, thank you," Ryan interrupted, pressing his fingers lightly to Sam's mouth. "I'd love to see some more deep emeralds, and maybe some midnight blue. Jewel tones. Oh! And that newsboy cap," he pointed, "yes, that one!"

Sam stared at the hat and shrank back like it was about to attack him. "Don't come near me with that thing!"

Ryan sighed, but handed the cap back to the attendant and waved her away again. "That's fine. Not everyone can make it work, anyway." He turned back to his boyfriend and gently laid his palms on his cheeks. "Sam, you're panicking," he whispered.

"I'm not panicking," Sam protested, shaking his head.

"Yes. You are."

"Okay, maybe a little." Sam looked at him with such pleading in his eyes that Ryan had to take a moment and shake off the sudden impression of a puppy face. "This is not my— my—"

"Your milieu, I know. It's okay, Sam, there's no shame in that."

"My _milieu?_ "

"Yes, it means your accustomed surroundings, your—"

"I _know_ what it means, Ryan!" Sam's eyes flashed green fire, and Ryan ducked his head, dropping his hands to Sam's shoulders. "I'm sorry," Sam muttered, the anger flowing out of him as suddenly as it had appeared, his muscles marginally relaxing again beneath Ryan's fingers. "I'm... I'm kind of under a lot of stress right now. And you're right, this isn't my world."

"I know. It's mine," Ryan said softly, lifting his gaze again. "I just wanted you to spend a little time in it with me." Then he shrugged, and offered a half-smile. "It's not like I'm dragging you off to Broadway, or anything. I won't even make you get a pedicure."

Sam shook his head, but couldn't quite hold back his grin. "There are lengths I wouldn't go to, Ryan," he murmured. "Not even for you."

Ryan's smile widened into a smirk. "Yeah, you would," he whispered, tipping his head forward.

And this time Sam kissed him back.

* * *

Hours later, the sting of the shopping expedition had been lessened somewhat, buried beneath an absolutely phenomenal six-course Thai dinner and soothed away by an evening of Ryan's undivided attention. Sam was relaxed to the point of near-melting, now, lying on his back on the Evans' vast green lawn, his head in Ryan's lap and the stars twinkling far overhead.

"I want you to wear your new coat the next time you take me out," Ryan murmured, stroking his fingers through Sam's thick – and still mercifully untrimmed – hair.

Sam huffed a soft laugh, and grinned up at him. "It's cashmere, Ryan."

"I know." Ryan smiled slyly. "And you were working it."

Now Sam snickered, unable to help himself. "I can't even believe I own it. You can be really overwhelming, you know that?"

Ryan shrugged, clearly unoffended. "When I set my mind to it, sure. You're worth it."

Sam's smile tilted, but he didn't argue. At some point in the afternoon he'd simply given up and let himself lose track of the grand sum 'his' purchases were racking up on Ryan's tab, no matter that he'd been given no choice in the matter anyway. It had clearly delighted Ryan to have him as his giant dress-up doll, and Sam didn't think he could face taking his metaphorical hat in his hands, going back to Dean and explaining that they needed to rush out and do a whole lot of pool hustling because he now had a closet full of _silk_.

And besides, Sam was pretty sure Ryan wasn't responsible for paying his own credit card bills anyway.

"Hey," he said softly, clearing his throat after a few more moments of easy silence. "We really do need to talk about school."

Ryan's brows quirked as he gazed down at Sam's face. "What about it?"

Sam bit his lip. "I'm serious. I don't think you should go back there."

"I have to go back sometime," Ryan replied, clearly puzzled. "It's my senior year. I'm kind of planning on graduating."

"Yeah, but—" Sam sat up, and shifted around to take Ryan's hands in his. "You don't have to go back this week. Maybe not next week either. Just— I mean, you just got out of the hospital anyway. It's not like you don't have a perfect excuse all lined up."

Ryan stroked his thumb over the back of Sam's hand. "You know I'm fine," he said quietly, giving Sam another glimpse of that spine of steel, so rarely revealed and yet so secretly formidable.

"That's not the point," Sam insisted. "I— look, Ryan, I really don't know how to tell you this." He sighed and twined their fingers together, watching the play of moonlight on Ryan's skin. "I'm really worried about you. I meant it when I said I think you're in danger at school."

"From... what?" Ryan asked, and cracked a grin. "More badminton?"

It was supposed to be funny. Should have been. But Sam just couldn't bring himself to smile. "I'm serious."

"You're very serious, I can see that." Ryan leaned in and brushed a kiss over Sam's mouth. "But I'm still not seeing why."

"Because—" Sam broke off, frustrated, and then licked his lips, tasting Ryan. "Because on Tuesday, Jenna Brady got burned in a freak chemistry accident. On Wednesday, you had a fucking heart attack out of nowhere. Tomorrow..." he trailed off, and shrugged. "I don't know what's going to happen, Ryan. But people are getting hurt at school."

He looked up to find Ryan watching him steadily, his eyes midnight dark and fathomless in the moonlight. "Sam," Ryan whispered, and leaned close for a slow kiss, drawing Sam in and leaving him weak. "You worry too much."

* * *

"I'm thinking I'll let Dean take me out this weekend." Sharpay made the announcement out of the blue, and continued to study her manicure. 

"You— what?" Ryan was horrified. 

"Dean, dummy." The glare she tossed him was half-hearted at best, proving that she really wasn't the slightest bit bothered. "He's rough around the edges, sure, but amazingly hot for all that. I bet he's very... energetic." 

Ryan's stomach curdled, and he set his pencil down before he could snap it in two. "...Eww," he muttered, wincing. "Why do you even... you know what? Forget it. I don't even want to know." 

"What, you think you're the only one who should be getting some hot Winchester sex? I swear, Ryan, you are so damn selfish sometimes." Sharpay completed her perusal of her fingernails and then pulled a compact from her makeup bag so she could check her lipstick. 

His cheeks burned and Ryan swallowed hard. _Damn_ his twin sister, she could put him on the spot like no one else. She just knew him too darn well. "He actually asked you out?" 

"Not yet." She pursed her lips at her reflection one last time and then slipped the compact back into her bag. "But he will. And when he does, he'll be convinced that it's all his own idea. Hey!" Sharpay looked at him with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Want to double-date?" 

"God no!" Ryan stared at her, uncertain whether she was pulling his leg or not, but definitely not willing to risk it. 

She rolled her eyes, a gesture he found oddly reassuring. "Please, Ryan. The last thing I need is my baby brother around when I'm about to get some." 

"Good thing," Ryan muttered, thinking that sentiment definitely went both ways. "Because the last thing _I_ need is my big sister cock-blocking me." It seemed unlikely, perhaps, but he knew all too well how Sharpay was unwilling to give up the slightest bit of attention to anyone else, no matter the circumstances. 

"As _if_. God!" She grimaced. "Sam is just so... so..." She shuddered in lieu of words. 

"Shut up!" Ryan snapped, stung. "He is _not_... whatever that was." He could guess, anyway. 

Sharpay scoffed, and reached out to pat his shoulder. "Your boyfriend's safe from me," she cooed. 

“Sharpay and Ryan!” Mrs. McKellen's strident voice rang out over the classroom. “A little less chatting, if you don't mind!” Ryan hunched deeper into his seat, and let Sharpay smooth things over with a dazzling smile, one of the ones specially designed for adults. And other people who made the foolish mistake of underestimating her. 

Their trigonometry teacher turned away to scold another student for some imagined infraction, and Sharpay leaned her elbow on Ryan’s desk, speaking softly over her shoulder. “You are using those condoms Mom gave you, right?” 

Now it was Ryan’s turn to shudder. “If you know she gave them to me, then you know I already got the safe sex lecture,” Ryan pointed out in a mumble. This was one conversation he really didn’t need to have broadcast to the student body at large. “So I sure don’t need it from you.” 

“I’m just saying.” She shrugged, and turned to meet his eyes. “He’s twenty-something, and you know he’s been around. There’s no telling what he’s crawling with.” 

He glared at her. He was well known for taking way more of Sharpay’s bullshit than any other human on the planet, but even Ryan had his limits. “Seriously, shut up,” he warned. “Or you’re going on my list.” 

“Oh, God!” Sharpay pressed a dramatic hand to her heart. “Not _the list!_ ”

“Yeah, that one,” Ryan muttered. He looked up in time to find that they’d unluckily attracted McKellen's attention yet again, and she was marching towards them, a steely look in her eye. 

Before she could open her mouth for a classic reaming, however, they were all distracted. The fluorescent lights dimmed, then flashed back with a brighter-than-usual intensity. Around the room students groaned and squinted, holding up their hands before their eyes, but then there was a sound like crackling power lines, high voltage burning through wires. 

And the lights blacked out entirely. 

One of their classmates laughed with delight, and a hum of speculative conversation rose as the seconds passed and the school’s back-up generators failed to kick in. Ryan glanced out the window and was surprised to see that the New Mexico sky was its normal vivid blue, cloudless as usual. No stormy explanation for the sudden power failure. Even the requisite EXIT sign above the classroom door was dead and unlit, although Ryan had always figured those things must run on batteries or something. 

The clock hanging above the white board was stopped in its tracks, but as the minutes dragged by to the end of the class period, students checked their watches and began getting to their feet and gathering up their books. Ryan frowned as he tried to put his finger on just what felt so surreal about the scene, and when students began flowing into the hallway to head for their next classes, the absence of the clanging school bell clued him in. It wasn’t just the jarring lack of the bell, or even the subtler buzz of the fluorescents which was suddenly missing. 

The sounds filling the school now were _only_ people sounds, hollowly echoing off the concrete and tile walls in a way that called attention to just how much noisier everything usually was, with the building’s normal steady functional hum. Without it, the halls sounded almost cavernous, despite the accustomed riot of teenagers. Fear suddenly skittered down Ryan's spine, a visceral flashback to the gym class from hell... and that moment when all his classmates had just faded out and he'd been sure he was hearing an eerie insistent voice. One that didn't actually exist. 

He frowned but tried to shrug off the uneasy feeling, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder and joining the throng. Because he hadn't heard anything that day, of course he hadn't. Nothing beyond Mr. Kelvin shouting his name, and his classmates' furious whispering, and the pounding thud of his own heartbeat. Anything else... obviously, the absurd tension of the moment had made him imagine it. A stress-induced hallucination, that was all.

Still, as he made his way down the hallway and suddenly felt a hand close over his shoulder, he really wasn’t even that surprised. 

“Ryan, you should go,” Sam whispered urgently, leaning in so his words met Ryan’s ear. “Go home or something.” 

“Sam, you’re doing it again,” Ryan whispered back, wishing that his anxiety level hadn’t just shot into the stratosphere. “And it’s still weird.” 

“Look, I’m not joking around,” Sam replied. Ryan stepped out of the current of students and leaned against a locker, looking up to meet Sam’s eyes. And sure enough, there wasn’t a trace of humor to be found there. “Just trust me on this, all right?” 

Ryan frowned, feeling impatient with Sam and exasperated with himself, because really—why the hell was he so damn anxious all of a sudden? It was just a friggin’ power outage. _God, Sam’s nerves are catching_ , he told himself, but before he could open his mouth to speak, Sharpay was at his side. 

“So, where are we going today?” she chirped brightly, eyeing Sam. “Shopping again? Is Ryan introducing you to his stylist? Don’t worry, I’m sure Rahul will know _just_ what to do for your... condition.” 

Sam’s glance moved over her in obvious irritation, but it seemed he wasn’t going to let himself be sidetracked so easily. “Why don’t you go?” he suggested, as falsely cordial as she had been. “Take Ryan with you. Buy something expensive that'll make all the other kids jealous.” 

“Enough,” Ryan cut in wearily, as Sharpay geared up to fire back. “I’m not putting up with this from either of you today.” He drilled a look at Shar, then met Sam’s urgent gaze again. “Yesterday you wanted to get rid of me. Today you want to get rid of me. But now you’re not even coming along? What the hell, Sam?” 

“Ryan, we talked about this,” Sam said quietly, and Ryan rolled his eyes. 

“Right, I forgot. My life’s in danger.” Ryan sighed, trying to affect annoyance while at the same time determined not to admit – even to himself – how inexplicably hurt he felt. “You know, when you’re not driving me crazy, you’re just... driving me crazy,” he told Sam, and if some of that confused pain was echoing right back at him from Sam’s eyes now, then that was only fair. 

He turned to walk away, but Sharpay’s next words brought him up short. “His life’s in danger?” 

Annoyed, Ryan turned back. “Shar, don’t encourage him,” he snapped, glaring at her and wondering how she could ask such a stupid question without sounding the least bit sarcastic. But she ignored him completely, and just when the hell did she suddenly decide to _listen_ to Sam? 

Sam, who was standing there like a big idiot, his throat working while he clearly tried to decide just how to respond to that. “Yeah, it is,” he eventually replied, and Ryan stifled a groan. “Sharpay, if you care about him, you’ll get him out of here. He shouldn’t be in school.” 

Sharpay’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t scoff in derision like Ryan would have expected. “Fine,” she decided after a moment, and shrugged like it wasn’t the most bizarre conversation ever. “We can always use a three-day weekend.” She dropped Sam from her attention and turned to Ryan. “Come on, Ry. I’ll call Andrés at the spa. I’m sure he can squeeze us in for detox wraps this afternoon.” 

Ryan stared at his sister incredulously, and then shook his head in disgust. “You’re on your own,” he said finally, and included Sam in his glare. “Both of you.” He watched as hurt blossomed anew on Sam’s face, but turned his back and stalked away from them both.

* * *

"I still say we're wasting our fucking time here," Dean insisted, pausing in his pacing routine to pull aside the curtain and peer out their window at the street-lit motel parking lot. "We should be at the school, digging around. Looking for things we missed. Checking every single dusty corner with an EMF meter, _something_."

"There's a home football game tonight," Sam replied from where he was hunched over at the small table. His carefully patient tone of voice was suggestive of a man who'd already had to explain the same thing to the same person, and already more than once. "People would notice us wandering around inside the school, if not just notice us breaking and entering in the first place."

Dean rolled his eyes. "And what's wrong with us wandering around the school? You're a registered student, sort of. You could say you were giving me a tour or something." He looked at Sam expectantly. 

"With flashlights?"

"All right, _fine_ ," Dean grumbled, and let the curtain fall closed again. He pushed himself heavily onto his bed, landing flat on his back and glaring up at the ceiling. "I hate this fucking room. Have I mentioned how I hate this fucking room? Because I've been getting to spend a whole lot of time in it, recently, and—“

“Seriously, Dean, _enough_ ,” Sam shot back, and – wonder of wonders – he actually bothered to look up from the documents he was studying. “You’re getting on my nerves.”

“Oh, I’m getting on _your_ nerves?” Dean snarled. “Well that’s just peachy. I think you need to cut me some friggin' slack, Sam. After all, I’ve been holed up in here with basic cable while you’re out there getting laid, you selfish dick." 

"Yeah, well not anymore," Sam muttered, frowning, and he turned back to hunch over his papers again.

“What?” Dean turned his head against the pillow so he could watch Sam. “Did you and Ryan have another fight?” He scoffed in disbelief. “Seriously, _again?_ You’ve been together for, what. A week and a half?” Dean shook his head, incredulous. “I swear you two spend more time fighting than fucking. Drama drama drama.”

“Drama drama drama,” Sam echoed in a whisper, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. After a few moments of silence, he sighed. “Tell me where we’re going to look.”

“...Huh?” Dean glanced absently away from the water stain he’d been studying on the spackled ceiling. He could almost just make out the outline of a ’64 Chevelle, distinctive roof drip rails and all. “Oh, going to look at the school, you mean?” He shrugged. “Everywhere, I guess. You got any better ideas?”

“No,” Sam replied shortly, and for all that Sam was pissing him off tonight, Dean could hear in his brother’s voice that the whole crappy situation was getting to him just as badly. “I haven’t been able to really inspect every single room yet. I’ve been going a lot on say-so from the students....” He sighed, and dragged his fingers through his unkempt hair. “I guess tomorrow night’s our best bet. I think the place is pretty empty on Saturday afternoons, so maybe we can even start before sundown.”

“Yeah. ‘Cause it’s going to take us all damn night to go over that building thoroughly,” Dean agreed, irritated already at the thought of it. “And not just the building, I guess.” His brow furrowed as he tried to recall the details of the old blueprints. “Are any of the newer structures on plots where students used to be active?” he asked. “Like, do we need to check every inch of the baseball diamond, too?”

”Let me see,” Sam said, pushing back from the table and turning to the ragged pile of photocopied newspaper clippings, hand-scrawled notes, ancient county records — every scrap of information they’d accumulated on the East High case, thus far. He pulled out the blueprints from the stack and spread the thin sheets across the table.

Pulling up the chair opposite, Dean settled in and lifted Sam’s glass of water out of the way. Sam shuffled down to the bottom layer of prints, to the oldest one, and then carefully spread out that one on top of the others. “All right,” he murmured. “The bodies were found here,” he laid his finger on a black-inked X, next to a scribbled date, “here, and here. We still haven’t discovered the location for the 1960 murder. And from what the newspaper article said, Minnie’s corpse was found right here, in the yard just outside where the English classrooms were back then.”

Dean frowned. “We’re going back to Minnie?”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but then just shrugged. “What else do we have right now?”

“True.” As much as Dean hated it, he had to admit at least that. “Okay, so Minnie was actually found outside. Don’t know if she was killed there, but that’s where she ended up.” Dean sat up and craned his neck to inspect the blueprint sideways. “So far as we know, all the other bodies were found inside the building somewhere, right?”

“Right,” Sam agreed, his brow furrowing as he studied the drawing.

“Well, what about that patch of ground where Minnie was? Did anything ever get built on top of that?” Without waiting for an answer, Dean started lifting up the edges of the blueprints and peeking at them until he found the one he was looking for. “Here,” he said, pulling that one out and laying it on top. He double-checked the location with a quick glance, and then nodded. “That’s where they built the theater. In, um...” he pursed his lips as he raked through his memory. “The sixties.”

“Yeah.” Sam chewed on his bottom lip for a long moment, and then blew out a breath in frustration. “So, what does that give us?”

“Not fucking much,” Dean agreed, just as glum. But then his eyes narrowed. “Wait.” He grabbed his own notebook from the stack on the floor and began flipping through it. “That girl who got burned this past week — what was her name?”

“Ahh, Jenna,” Sam recalled. “Jenna Brady.”

“Jenna Brady,” Dean muttered, running his fingertip down a closely-scrawled page of notes. “Was she a theater student, by chance?”

“A theater student?” Sam sat back, obviously struck by the question. “She... I don’t think... oh, wait,” he exclaimed, as a fragment of memory dropped into place. “I don’t know if she actually takes theater classes, but I think she’s active in the drama department — you know, extracurricular, or whatever. I remember Troy’s girlfriend worrying that Jenna would miss some play auditions because of the accident.”

Dean looked up and pinned Sam with a dubious gaze. “Troy’s girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and shook his head apologetically. “I can never remember her name.”

“Yeah, but. The guy’s name is actually _Troy?_ Did I make a wrong turn into Beverly Hills, or something?”

“The hell if I know what’s up with that,” Sam muttered, and sat up again, reaching across the table to snatch Dean’s notebook out of his hands.

“Hey! Mine.” Dean slapped at Sam’s wrist and yanked the book back. “Look. Every kid we’ve got info on...” he began, grabbing a pen and starting to scribble furiously, adding to his notes. “The 1996 victim, Mrs. Harding’s student. 1972, that kid. That girl in May of ’84. And then the kid who got killed in 1960, who was in the school newspaper the week before for getting his leg broken.” Dean rapidly scanned his notes again, and then shook his head in disbelief. “Sam, they were all written up in the school paper as drama kids. Every single one.”

“Every single one,” Sam echoed in a slow whisper, staring incredulously down at the blueprints. “How did we miss—? The theater. Minnie’s body. But...” he raised his eyes to meet Dean’s. “Minnie, she’s not...” he trailed off with a shrug.

Dean’s lips pursed in a deep frown. “Yeah. But... damn it, there’s got to be something there!” he exclaimed, smacking his palm against the table. “This connection can’t mean nothing. I mean — Ryan, even!”

“Ryan,” Sam said softly, and Dean could have kicked himself for putting that desolate expression right back onto Sam’s face. “All right, we go tomorrow night,” he said, his voice firming. “We’ll check out the theater, top to bottom —at least that gives us a starting point. And then if we don’t find anything, we’ll keep going from there.”

[* * *](http://purelyfic.livejournal.com/16238.html#cutid1)

Dean slotted fresh batteries into his homemade EMF meter, then ran a quick scan of their motel room to make sure it was all juiced up and ready to go. _Speaking of juice..._ he thought, and eyed Sam, who was still dragging ass and trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“So, I’m thinking you need to call Ryan,” he said, and just as he’d expected, Sam immediately got all sulky.

“Why?” Sam muttered the question in a tone of voice that _should_ have been snarky, but he clearly just didn’t have the heart to put in it.

“Because,” Dean replied. “What if the drama geeks are doing some kind of rehearsal or set-building or something at the school today?” He looked at Sam pointedly. “You know damn well Ryan can’t go there. Just because the spirit usually kills on school days, that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t jump at the chance to take him out on a weekend.”

Sam shot him an incredulous glare. “God, Dean! Could you be any more insensitive?”

Dean pursed his lips and squinted up at the ceiling for a long moment. “Yes,” he eventually decided. “So, that’s my point. Call him.”

Still ticked off, Sam slouched back against the headboard of his bed. And then his glare turned inward for a few seconds, his concern for Ryan obviously warring with his desire to avoid attempting any conversation with him. “Hey,” he said quietly, and Dean turned to look at him expectantly.

“How about—“ Sam began, sitting up straighter and suddenly talking like it was just the best damn idea all year, “how about you call Sharpay, instead? I mean, she’d for sure know if something’s going on. Because she’d be going too, you know?” Sam eyed him hopefully. “So you can ask her.”

Dean sighed, one big put-upon exhalation that damn near drained his lungs. Then he shook his head, chewing on his bottom lip. “I don’t know, man,” he replied. “I mean, I was thinking that I’d go get us some breakfast—“

“I can go!” Sam cut in immediately.

_Score._ Dean eyed Sam, reluctance plain on his face. “Are you sure? I mean, you’re, like, hardly up yet.”

“I’m up.” As if to prove his words, Sam rolled off his bed and immediately hunched down on the floor to grab his boots.

“I don’t know. I mean, if you’re sure you don’t want to just call Ryan....”

“I’m sure.” Sam stomped his right foot all the way down into his boot, then knelt to yank the laces tight. “I’m up, I’m sure, I’m going.”

“Great!” Dean shot him a bright smile. “Go to Twinky Pie's. You know, that hole in the wall we passed on route 10 on the way into town? I was there the other night. They’ve got _awesome_ pie.” He dug the Impala’s keys out of his jacket pocket, and tossed them at Sam. “Blueberry’d be fine. Extra whipped cream. And don’t forget the coffee.”

Sam’s hand closed around the keys, and he looked at Dean in suspicion. “You’re a dick.”

“Yep. But I’m the dick who’s calling Sharpay. And you, my friend, are the dumbass who just got suckered into getting me some pie.” Smirking, Dean pulled open the door, and gestured out at the bright morning sunlight. “Run along.”

* * *

Dean waited until Sam grumbled his way all the way out the door and into the parking lot, and then waited until the Impala peeled out onto the road, for good measure. Then he dug out his cell phone and sat back on his bed, his expression turning utterly serious.

He flipped through his contacts and selected ‘ryns hot sis,’ then considered the number for a long moment before dialing.

The phone rang three times, and Dean was just starting to formulate some strategy for what he’d do if he couldn’t get ahold of either of the Evans siblings, when Sharpay answered. “This had better be Dean.”

Dean snorted a quick laugh. “Yeah, it is. Why?”

“Because I sure don’t want to talk to your idiot brother,” came the response. “You, on the other hand....”

“Me.” Dean nodded, mentally snickering at all the crap Sam had had to go through in the past week with just that one flippin’ family. “I didn’t interrupt your beauty sleep, did I?”

“Baby, beauty sleep is for ugly girls. I look this good _all_ the time,” she answered, and this time Dean laughed out loud.

“Got it,” he said. He settled back against the headboard, and tried to summon up some pure calm, nothing to get anyone’s interest up. Move along, nothing to see here. “So, hey,” he began, “are you doing anything today?”

“I could be.” Dean could hear the sly smile in Sharpay’s voice, and he had to remind himself of his game plan. “But plans can change.”

“Ohh, right.” Dean thudded his head lightly against the wall. Celibacy was _not_ a good look on him, he knew. _Stupid case._ “So, um. I guess you’re not doing that theater thing at the school today?”

There was a pause. “What?”

“The theater thing. Um, organizing... stuff, I guess. For the fall play, or something?” Dean winced, and silently cursed himself for not thinking ahead and coming up with something better.

“There’s no theater thing today,” Sharpay replied. “I would know. Ryan and I are co-presidents of the East High drama club.”

“Oh, sorry. My mistake,” Dean answered. “So, great. Talk to you soon, then!” He pulled the cell phone from his ear and was about to click off, but already he could hear the insect-sized squeak of Sharpay’s retort coming through. He sighed, and put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, what? I couldn’t hear you.”

“I _said,_ what the hell is going on?”

Dean blinked. “Huh? Nothing. Nothing’s going on,” he assured her. “I just got my dates mixed up, is all.”

“No.” Sharpay’s voice was all no-nonsense now, and Dean tried to ignore a sudden vision of her bossing someone around... while dressed in black leather and stilettos. “I mean what the hell is with you and Sam? Sam seems convinced that someone’s trying to hurt Ryan.”

 _Oh. Fuck._ “...What?” Dean replied, and forced a chuckle. “God, no. Why would anyone want to hurt Ryan? I’m sure he was just exaggerating again.” He chuckled again. “That’s my brother Sammy. Drama drama drama all the time, you know? He just likes thinking everything’s so much more exciting than it really is, because then he can pretend he’s a superhero or some shit.” Dean waited stiffly, hoping Sharpay would take the bait.

No such luck. “That sounds really stupid,” she pointed out.

“Oh yeah, stupid as all-get-out. But you kinda gotta feel for the kid, you know?” Dean blundered on. “Living in his fantasy world, pretending evil lurks around every corner—“

“ _Dean_ ,” Sharpay cut in. “I don’t believe you. Sam obviously really thinks Ryan’s in danger, and by the way? He’s freaking Ryan the hell out. So I want to know what the fuck is going on.” She paused, obviously expecting Dean to cough up some plausible explanation already.

_Yeah, that’s not happening either._ “Nothing. Nothing’s going on. Sam’s fine, he’s just kind of a nut. I mean, he’s my brother and I love him to pieces, but he’s got this hero complex, I’m telling you.” Dean rubbed his eyes, realizing that he was suddenly edging uncomfortably close to the actual truth. Which was a seriously bad idea all around. “And Ryan’s fine, and you’re fine, and you’re not going anywhere near your school this weekend, and that’s all well and good. So, great!” Dean paused to inhale a deep breath. “Good talking to you!”

“Wait! Dean, I want to know—“

But this time he went ahead and hung up.

* * *

“Rock. Hip-hop. Broadway. Blues. Off-Broadway...” Ryan muttered to himself as he hunched over his laptop. He was starting to get a crick in his neck, and probably really should have just sat down at his desk in the first place, but that would have meant sorting through the piles of sheet music and homework papers and books on the desk first. Sitting on the floor was just so much easier. “Ben Lee is _not_ hard rock. Christ, you people.” He moused through iTunes, selecting all of his Ben Lee library and editing the collective track info. “And for heaven’s sake, Bob Marley is not alternative!"

“Talking to yourself is a really bad sign, you know that,” Sharpay pointed out, entering his bedroom uninvited. She stood there, hands on hips, and looked down on her brother. “Maybe you’re getting as crazy as your boyfriend.” 

Ryan’s shoulders stiffened in an instant, his whole body going rigid. “I’m not crazy,” he muttered. _And Sam’s not my boyfriend,_ was the logical next piece of the unwelcome conversation. But Ryan swallowed it down, led astray by some errant bit of hope. 

Because hope just did so much good for people. Right. 

“Would you say that Massive Attack is trip-hop?” he asked, not even looking up at his sister. 

“What?” Sharpay frowned and bent to pick up the salmon-colored tennis visor he’d so carelessly cast aside. She began pseudo-thoughtfully brushing it off – a sure sign that she intended to stay a while and talk to Ryan _for his own good_ – and Ryan groaned inwardly. 

“iTunes automatically tagged all my Massive Attack songs as electronica and dance,” he explained. “I don’t think that’s exactly right. They’re totally ignoring the subtleties of sub-genres, and Massive Attack practically originated trip-hop in the first place—“ 

“Maybe Apple just isn’t down with trip-hop,” Sharpay cut in, her tone rich with sarcasm, mild though it was. But Ryan knew from experience that she was just warming up. “Get up. Put your moisturizer on already. We’ve got things to do today.” 

“I’m busy,” Ryan answered petulantly, “ _I’ve_ got things to do today.” 

“Really.” Sharpay strolled over until she was directly in his line of view, so that even when he was stubbornly staring at his laptop screen, she was still unavoidably in his peripheral vision. “Like what?” 

“I am re-tagging every single song in my iTunes library,” he replied. “Obviously. Because their so-called organization is absolutely ridiculous.” 

“Ryan—“ 

“I won’t have it!” he snapped defensively, and Sharpay rolled her eyes. 

“Right. Your whole library,” she said. “And just how much music is that?” 

Ryan checked the bottom of his screen. “16.8 days,” he replied. “I’ll be a while.” 

Now Sharpay groaned. “Fine. You don’t want to come with me? Then don’t,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “But first, just tell me why Dean thinks we need to stay away from the school today.” 

_Dean?_ Ryan’s breath hitched in sharply, and he schooled himself to indifference. “How the hell should I know? He’s a Winchester. Probably their whole family is nuts.” 

“Think so?” Sharpay finally gave in and sat down on the floor next to him, stretching her legs out straight and crossing them at the ankles. She took a moment to admire her boots – Alexander McQueen’s 2009 collection, Ryan couldn’t help but approve – before she spoke again. “Well, Sam insists that your life is in danger, and suddenly Dean wants to make sure that you and I absolutely don’t set foot in the school for the entire weekend. Put two and two together, and I think that’s just weird. Times four.” 

“Of course it’s weird,” Ryan muttered. “The two of them are always weird.” He sat by her in silence for long moments, aggressively re-tagging – Erasure, twee? Oh _hell_ no – but eventually his reluctant curiosity ate away at him. “How do you know all that, anyway?” 

Being his sister, she didn’t reply right away. Of course not. She wanted him weakened and vulnerable first. When eventually he gave in and looked up to meet her eyes, she finally deigned to answer. “Dean called me this morning. He wanted to know if I’d be busy with the drama club thing at the school today.” 

“There is no drama club thing today,” Ryan said, bemused. 

“ _Duh_ , Ryan.” Sharpay let out an egregious sigh. “That’s why it’s so suspicious. So add that to the fact that he never calls me, plus I don’t think he gives a shit about theater. So you tell me. Sam wants you out of school because he’s worried you’ll get hurt. Now suddenly Dean thinks so too.” She raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. “Doesn’t that make you wonder what the hell is really going on?” 

_Yes._ “No.” 

“Liar. It’s totally eating away at you,” she shot back. 

“It is not,” Ryan retorted. “Sam’s a psycho, Dean’s probably a sociopath from birth, but I, on the other hand, am totally fine. So go take your curiosity elsewhere.” 

She watched him in silence for a minute, then shrugged. “Fine,” she said, getting to her feet and brushing off her Miss Sixty skinny jeans. Coral blue. _So_ not her color. “You can go ahead and stay here, locked up with your anal-retentive self all day. I’m going to school.” 

“What?” He looked up at her in surprise, and his heart started beating faster. “Why would you want to go to school?” 

“Because I want to know what’s going on, Ryan! I bet you anything those Winchesters are doing something weird, and I want to know what it is,” she answered, turning to view herself from all angles in Ryan’s trio of full-length mirrors. 

“It’s a waste of time, Shar.” Ryan shook his head and turned back to his laptop. But hell if he could be bothered with his music library anymore. 

“Maybe.” She blew him a kiss, turned on her spike heel, and strode out of his bedroom. 

He frowned, his shoulders hunching once more. And he listened to the sounds echoing through their otherwise quiet house, of Sharpay selecting her purse and grabbing her car keys and cell phone, pausing by the foyer mirror to pucker up and apply one last coat of lip gloss. She wasn't going to find anything weird at the school, Ryan was sure of it. Sam and Dean weren't even going to be there. And there wasn't a damn fucking thing to make him worry, or think something was actually wrong, or fear that Sharpay might be walking into something way bigger than she was expecting. Something really really bad. 

“Damn it,” he whispered, his blood suddenly swimming with cold unease, and he climbed to his feet. “Sharpay, wait!” 

* * *

“Where did he transfer from, again?” Sharpay briefly took her eyes off the road to glance aside at Ryan, slumped and sulking in the passenger seat of her custom-pink convertible Mercedes. The Barbie Dream Car, as Ryan had privately dubbed it. 

“I don’t know. Someplace in Texas, I think.” He hid a quick yawn behind his hand and stared idly at the xeriscape, which blurred to a dull wash of gray-green in passing. 

“Well, why’d they move here?” Sharpay pressed. “What does his father do?” 

“I don’t know,” Ryan said again. “Sam never said.” 

“What about their mother, then? Did they move because of her career?” 

“I have no idea, Shar.” Ryan tipped his head back against the headrest, squinting at the bright sky through his mirrored shades. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know if Sam can dance, I don’t know what he wants to be when he grows up, and I don’t know who his favorite author is.” He bit his lip meditatively. “Although I do know his shoe size.” 

Sharpay snorted, an incredibly unladylike sound which she would never confess to in court. “That, I believe. Don’t you know anything else about him? Seriously, _anything?_ ” 

Ryan frowned, and then shrugged. “Not really. We don’t usually talk that much.” And that fact had never bothered Ryan, before. Particularly as the reason for it was that they were usually way too wrapped up in each other for actual speech. But now, under Sharpay’s prodding, he was beginning to realize just how little he actually knew about Sam. 

“Have you ever been to his house?” Sharpay asked, turning down the stereo a notch. 

“No.” 

“Do you even know where he lives?” 

“ _No_ ,” Ryan answered, annoyed with her. Outwardly, anyway. Inwardly... it might have been with Sam. Or, at this point, he might have just been irritated with himself. Ryan liked to pride himself on his smooth timing, his quiet insight into people, and his unerring judgment when it came to foolish and laughable things that other people did. 

Falling for Sam Winchester definitely hadn’t been one of his better moves. 

“Look, I told you we don’t talk much. And we’ve never needed to go to his house, because we always have sex in my bedroom,” he said, sitting up straight against the leather seat and glaring at his sister. 

“That is _so_ unfair,” Sharpay grumbled, just like he knew she would. 

Ryan shrugged. “Hey, don’t blame me if Mom doesn’t have the same worries about me that she has about you. No matter how kinky we get, Sam is never going to get me pregnant.” 

She shot him a glare which promised a slow and painful death, and he grinned. Probably for the first time all morning. Then she braked – barely – and made a sharp rocky turn into the school parking lot. The section dedicated for the students’ parking was entirely empty, and only a few lone cars sat scattered in the employee lot. 

“See? I told you,” Ryan said, working to conceal his sudden relief, “they’re not here. This was a total waste of time. And if you—“ 

His words stopped abruptly as she drove around the corner of the sprawling building. There, hidden from the road between the smokers’ alley and the football field, was a black car, some kind of clunky-looking vintage thing with its smooth surface buffed to a loving shine. “Go over there,” Ryan ordered, narrowing his eyes. 

When Sharpay pulled up alongside, Ryan slipped out of her convertible and approached the old car with the same caution he’d give a rattlesnake lying in wait. It was empty of people, protected from the harsh sunshine by the shadow of the building. Stepping closer, he peeked inside the windows to find nothing but some beat-up cassette tapes, a Styrofoam coffee cup... and Sam’s brown leather jacket. 

“Damn it,” he whispered, his heart sinking. After a moment, resigned, he turned around to face his sister. “You were right. They’re here.” He shrugged, and stared glumly at the asphalt beneath his shoes. “I don’t know how they got in.” 

“No?” Sharpay leaned in to peer into the car, then pulled a small ring of keys from her purse with a flourish. “But I know how _we’re_ going to get in.” 

Ryan blinked at her in surprise. “Where did you— are those Ms. Darbus’s keys? The ones she was bitching about losing?” 

“Yep.” Shar was nothing if not unrepentant as she sorted through the collection of keys. “Props closet, costume room, green room, dressing rooms... and the side door from the track field to the theater.” 

“Sharpay...” Ryan was still staring at her, bemused. “You’re like a Bond girl.” 

“ _Please_ , Ryan, forget those overdone sluts.” She grinned mischievously at him. “I’m Bond.”

* * *

“Christ, Sam. Are you going to look under every damn seat in here?”

“You want to tell me why I shouldn’t?” Sam called back, although the sound was a bit muffled given that he was on his knees ducking his head under one of the theater’s folding seats. One of the seats, in the fourth row from the back. The fourth row. Out of sixty.

Dean groaned but dropped it. Standing center stage, he aimed his flashlight at the rigging above, trying to see... he didn’t know what. _Something_ weird, definitely. These searches were always a pain in the ass anyway. But they were so much friggin’ worse when he and Sam weren’t even quite certain just what they were looking for. Dean knew he tended to be suspicious by nature. But rampant directionless suspicion... that was one short sharp drop from insanity-inducing paranoia. And Dean wasn’t ready to go that crazy just yet.

East High’s theater looked normal enough, at least by his standards. Obviously, Dean’s standards were a bit wacked-out to begin with, but he’d been inside a couple theaters in his time – usually against his will, and no fucking way was he ever going to tell anyone about the friggin’ _opera_ an old girlfriend had dragged him to once – and he was under the impression that they all looked pretty much like this. Lots and lots of seats, the kind that sprang back upright as soon as someone stood up. Gigantic heavy velvet curtains. Hot gel lights shining down from the rafters over the stage, mercifully dark at the moment. All in all, pretty dull.

He shook his head and slipped behind the curtains, stepping carefully over the thick electrical cords that snaked beneath his feet. Speakers, ropes, a couple clipboards, a few loose pieces of paper scattered around, one lonely Sharpie with its cap missing. Typical backstage litter, he figured. But no hex bags, or puddles of blood, or creepy dolls with their heads turned around backwards—nothing that screamed, _Yo! Big-ass curse going on over here!_ He spied a metal ladder bolted to the brick wall and started climbing, figuring the view from the catwalk might be better overall, as it were. He’d only just reached the top when he froze, his ears perked. Quickly he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and speed-dialed Sam.

“Yeah, what?” Dean could hear the springs squeaking as Sam peeked beneath yet another of the seats.

“I hear something,” Dean hissed, killing his flashlight and straining to see in the dimness. “I think I hear voices.”

Sam sighed, his exasperation coming through loud and clear. “I swear, Dean, if you make one more Haley Joel joke—“

“No, seriously!” Dean said, cutting him off. “I’m up by the catwalk and I swear I hear—“ he abruptly shut up, because it wasn’t only voices, it was _footsteps_.

“Dean?”

“Shh,” Dean ordered, and flattened himself against the ladder. Across the stage a light flicked on, illuminating the wings to the sides of the stage. And Dean resisted the temptation – barely – to start banging his head against the brick wall. “Yeah, Sam,” he muttered into the phone, “you need to get your ass up here.”

He hung up and slipped his cell back into his pocket, and watched as the owners of the footsteps approached. Two of them. Both blonde. And both the most fucking irritating stubborn little jackasses Dean could possibly imagine at that moment.

“Well where would they _be_ , Ryan?” Sharpay asked, sounding annoyed. “What are they looking for?”

“Damn it, Shar, I don’t fucking know!” Ryan shot back, following at her heels. Yeah, there was definitely some mutual annoyance going on. Not that Dean didn’t feel like they entirely deserved it. “Sam asked once about the locker room, and then there was the chemistry lab, but then—“

“Ryan, what the fuck?” Sam’s voice was about two octaves too high and a hundred or so decibels too loud, a sure sign that he’d just had a major shock and was Not. Coping. 

Startled, Ryan jumped, his gaze fixed on Sam as Sam boosted himself up on the front edge of the stage, then stomped over to them. “Um, we just—“

“No fucking ‘Um we just’!” Sam shouted, getting right in Ryan’s face, and oh crap, Dean could see he was definitely going to need to intervene here before Sam made his little boyfriend cry. “I’ve fucking told you again and again that you need to stay away from school, and so you fucking show up on your day off? What the hell, Ryan!”

“Hey, Sasquatch!” Sharpay snapped, shoving in front of Ryan and glaring right up at Sam. All in all, Dean was impressed. “Back the fuck off!”

“Damn it, you too!” Sam shot back. “Do you think I’m jerking you around? Ryan could get hurt!”

“I’m not going to—“

Sam grabbed Ryan’s shirt and yanked him close, crushing their lips together in what Dean felt was a totally inappropriately-timed kiss. Of course, then in the next instant Sam was shoving him away again. “Shut up! You need to take me seriously, I—“

“All right, _enough_ ,” Dean interrupted, climbing halfway down the ladder and then dropping the last few feet to land on the stage with a thud. A thud made by his feet and not his ass for once, thank you very much, and Dean figured it for a pretty cool entrance.

At least it got them all to shut the hell up. 

“You’re all idiots, so all of you listen up,” he growled, and ignored the various shades of offense on their faces. “Sharpay, what will it take to get you to grab Ryan and get far far away from here?”

“More than you’ve got,” Sharpay informed him regally, and raised an eyebrow in challenge.

_Great_. Dean rolled his eyes, although he’d expected no less. He’d been hoping for it, though. “Fine. Stupid,” he added, but then mowed on over her as she started to protest. “Ryan, you go with Sam,” he commanded, and he followed that up by pointing, just in case they were both so brain-dead they couldn’t comprehend any direct orders at all anymore. “Do _not_ fucking leave his side, and I swear I am not shitting you on this. Sam warned you that you’re in danger, and he’s right. So bitch at him all you want but stick close. Sharpay,” he barked, “you’re with me.”

“Ex _cuse_ me, if you think—“

“Do you seriously think I’ve got a problem with slinging you over my shoulder and chucking you into the parking lot?” Dean asked in disbelief. “Because I totally don’t.”

Sharpay huffed, but Sam cut in before she could reload. “All right, we’ll take the backstage,” he said and took hold of Ryan’s hand. Ryan immediately shook him off and snatched his hand away, and even Dean could see where Sam had gone wrong with that one. “You and Sharpay finish up out here.”

“Finish _what?_ ” Sharpay demanded, and Dean tossed her the flashlight, impressed when she reflexively caught it without a fumble.

“We’re hunting ghosts, sweetheart,” he informed her. “Pay attention.”

“ _Ghosts?_ ” she echoed, clearly not believing a single word.

Ryan groaned. “God, again? I told you, Sam!” he argued, frustrated like they’d been through this before and _Sam_ was the slow one. “It’s just a stupid legend. There’s no such thing as ghosts!”

Sam’s jaw tightened, and he took a slow measured breath before he spoke. “Yeah. Guess what?” he muttered, and at least Ryan had the sense to recognize that question as rhetorical. “You’re wrong about that.”

“You Winchesters are so flippin’—“

“Shush!” Dean snapped, waving Sharpay to silence. Ten feet away, the overhead lamp they’d turned on flickered, buzzing like a swarm of bees as it fritzed out, then switched back on an instant later. Over the twins’ heads, Sam met Dean’s gaze, his eyes dark with worry. And knowledge.

“All right,” Dean whispered, although he knew it didn’t matter one bit to an evil spirit whether he was quiet or not.

And anyway, the spirit obviously already knew they were there.

Dean pulled his EMF meter from his jacket pocket. “Let’s get on it.”

* * *

“You must’ve spent lots of time in here, right?” Sam asked, pushing aside another dusty rack of varied costumes.

“Yeah. It’s the boys’ dressing room,” Ryan pointed out, as in, _duh._ “A little smaller than the girls’, because there are usually less of us. And then of course Sharpay has her own.”

“Sharpay has her own dressing room?” Sam asked, turning his head to look at Ryan.

“Yeah.” Ryan shrugged, a faint reluctant smile on his lips. “You’ve met her. I’m sure you can figure that one out.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Sam muttered, turning back to the storage shelves lining the back wall. He aimed his flashlight up, then ran a hand over the top of the shelving unit. “Nothing,” he said under his breath.

Ryan figured Sam was just talking to himself, but he couldn’t help but speak up anyway. “Of course there’s nothing,” he said quietly, and leaned against the make-up counter, his hands in his pockets as he watched Sam. “What are you looking for, anyway?”

“I... I don’t know,” Sam answered after a moment, and his mouth pinched into a frown. “I’m not sure.”

_Of course_. Out of all of this, that was perhaps the one thing that _did_ make sense: Sam and Dean were acting like complete idiots... and – like complete idiots – they didn’t even know _why_ they were doing it. “That’s great. That’s just great,” Ryan replied, trying to see the humor in the situation, but failing miserably. “So what are your motivations here?”

“My motivations?” Sam shot him a questioning look, then ducked down to run his hand along the underside of the counter. “I’m trying to keep you from getting killed,” he said with a sigh, and really, it just friggin’ _hurt_ Ryan to hear Sam sounding so utterly earnest about something so utterly absurd. “East High has been haunted by an evil spirit for more than sixty years, and every twelve years it wreaks havoc for a week, then murders one of the students.” Sam stood up, brushing dust from his hands, his gaze on Ryan completely serious. “This past week, there has been an unexplained electrical black-out, and a bizarre fire in one of the science labs. And, oh yeah,” he said, his tone of voice sliding off the edge into sarcasm. “A completely healthy eighteen year-old boy had a heart attack out of fucking nowhere. Ring a bell?”

Right, the heart attack. Ryan had been doing his best to forget about it, figuring he already had enough going on with normal everyday life and didn’t need to get bogged down in worry or paranoia.

Or fear.

“So, this evil spirit,” he murmured, watching Sam closely. “It... causes black-outs? And starts fires?”

Sam shrugged, but now at least he looked less clueless than annoyed. “It can do a lot of things,” he explained, “a variety. Some years it breaks things. Like tables, the plumbing pipes, stuff like that. One year a kid got hurt right out there,” he said, waving a hand in the direction they’d come from, back where the stage was. “One of the lights from the rigging fell on him and broke his leg. He was lucky he wasn’t killed.”

“But you said people do get killed,” Ryan pointed out.

“Yeah,” Sam answered with a nod. “They do. But not like that.”

Ryan rubbed his eyes tiredly. “How, then?”

“Um.” Sam hesitated, and Ryan narrowed his eyes, watching him. “They... They kind of bleed to death.”

“Bleed to death,” Ryan repeated, his tone flat. “Kind of?”

“Look, Ryan.” Sam let out a sigh and leaned back against the counter next to him. “You want to know the gory details? Their bodies were always found with one big slash across the throat. And totally drained of blood.” He frowned and met Ryan’s eyes. “But never any blood around them, either. Like, it was just... gone.”

“Gone.” Ryan tried to keep his expression neutral, but Sam’s words gave him the chills. A person killed by having their throat slit, yeah, he supposed that happened pretty often; unfortunately, it was not at all out of the realm of the cruelty human beings wreaked on each other every damn day. But a body that bled out but left behind no blood... He shivered, though he tried to suppress it.

“So,” he said, going back to square one, “what are you looking for? What’s some kind of ghost clue that’ll let you know you’ve actually found it?”

Sam shrugged. “Lots of things. Spirits, and sometimes even the corpses of souls that aren’t at rest... they give off electromagnetic frequencies. That’s what Dean’s doing right now, he’s checking for weird electrical activity, trying to find any spots around here that are orbing with something supernatural.”

_Orbing?_ Ryan shook his head, and then asked the obvious question. “Dean’s checking, where he and Sharpay are. But you’re not checking?”

“I’m still checking, just not the same way,” Sam explained, and shifted position slightly, easing a bit closer to Ryan. If he were to reach out just then – say, to hold Ryan’s hand – he wouldn’t have far to go to bridge the gulf between them.

If Ryan would let him.

“Because of the EMF activity, they mess up regular electrical stuff,” Sam continued, and nodded once more in the direction of the stage. “Like that light out there. That wasn’t just some normal flaky fritzing. That was... Casper letting us know it’s here.”

“Casper?” Ryan snorted a small laugh, because seriously, did Sam and Dean ever take the time to actually _listen_ to themselves? “I thought you decided this was Minnie Winslow, haunting the students of East High for all eternity.”

“Don’t say that,” Sam snapped, and Ryan flinched at the sharpness in his tone. Then Sam frowned apologetically, and added, “It’s not Minnie. We know that for sure.”

“Seriously?” Ryan was edging beyond normal skepticism, and right back into outraged disbelief. “Sam, first you want us to believe there’s a ghost, and now you want us to believe it’s not even the same ghost some people actually believe _is_ haunting the school? What the hell?”

“We thought it was.” Now Sam did reach out, brushing his fingers lightly over Ryan’s palm before dropping his hand once more. “We were, like, ninety-nine percent sure of it. So Dean and I made sure to put Minnie’s spirit to rest.” He frowned. “We thought for sure that would finally stop everything.”

“How... how did you put her spirit to rest?” Ryan’s palm still tingled from that brief caress, and okay, maybe he was inching a little closer, too.

Sam drew his lower lip between his teeth, and chewed on it for a few seconds before he answered. And then the words came out in a rush. “We dug up her grave and opened her coffin, poured salt and kerosene all over her corpse and then set her on fire.”

“ _What?_ ” Jerking back, Ryan stared at Sam in shock. “Are you fucking crazy?”

“It’s how it’s done,” Sam explained frantically. “That’s the way it works! If a spirit is not at rest because it’s lingering on earth when it shouldn’t be, salting and then burning their remains breaks the connection and should give them peace. I swear, Ryan!” he insisted, his eyes nearly pleading. “We don’t do this shit for fun, honest.” He lifted a hand like he was going to touch Ryan again, but then drew back without trying. “Anyway, it didn’t work. And so that means it wasn’t Minnie who was hurting everyone.”

“Right.” Ryan watched Sam in horrified silence for a few more seconds, then tried to shake it off. “Who is it, then?”

“We don’t know.” There was utter desolation in Sam’s voice, frustration all bound up in despair. “That’s why we don’t know where to look, what to do... But Ryan, you’re marked,” he said, his tone turning urgent once more. “It hurt you once. It's probably going to try again, and next time...” he trailed off, and Ryan shuddered again. This time he couldn’t hide it.

 _Next time it will be permanent_. Yeah, even without Sam saying it aloud, that message got through loud and clear. Ryan frowned, staring down at his white patent leather shoes. It startled him when Sam lifted his hand and linked their fingers together.

But Ryan let him.

“So, that’s why we’re here looking,” Sam said quietly, picking up the thread of his explanation once more. “All the kids who have been killed have been connected to the theater in some way, drama club or class or whatever. So we think we should concentrate our search here. And if that light was any indication...” Sam frowned, then continued. “Electrical short-out stuff. EMF hot spots. Sudden cold patches, icy air, those are all ‘ghost in the house’ type clues. Sometimes they can even briefly impose their will on the physical world. Like, screw with computers and cell phones and stuff.” He sighed. “Vengeful spirits tend to create chaos, and hurt people when they can. Because they want revenge for whatever wrong they think was done to them.”

“Or they just want to be found,” Ryan murmured, and Sam looked at him in surprise.

“What?”

“The— the spirit,” Ryan said, faltering a bit at the sudden deadly intensity in Sam’s eyes. “She wants to be found.” He swallowed hard, because he hadn’t believed Sam and it had been such a horrible week full of bullshit and everything was crazy but now... Oh yeah. Ryan knew he was in a shitload of trouble now. “I heard her voice, that day in gym class.”

Sam’s green eyes slowly hardened to pure impenetrable glass, and Ryan inched back, drawing his hand away. He’d seen Sam angry before, sure, and only half an hour ago he’d been putting up with his outraged shouting. But that was nothing to the calm cold fury that was pumping out of Sam’s pores now.

His gaze still fixed on Ryan, Sam drew his cell phone from his pocket. “Dean,” he said a moment later, and even his voice was hard and chilled.

“We’re looking for a body.”

* * *

"So how does the spirit choose its targets?" Sharpay's voice was bright, almost chirpy. Like they were on a stupid Easter egg hunt or something, and not looking to stir up some serious trouble with a majorly pissed-off spirit.

"I told you already," Dean grated out, crouching down in the orchestra pit and doing a sweep with the EMF meter. "They're drama kids."

"Yeah, but like, _which_ drama kids?" she persisted, and Dean rolled his eyes. "I mean, why Ryan? He's pretty great. Jenna Brady, sure, I can see someone wanting to hurt her just to turn off that snorty laugh of hers."

Dean got to his feet and glared at Sharpay where she was perched on the edge of the stage, legs crossed at the knee and black leather boots swinging while she waited. "That's not funny."

She shrugged. "It's a little funny."

"No. Seriously," Dean insisted, "it's not funny. You and your brother, it's like you think this is some sort of game. Or a late-night B-movie or something." He stalked to the stage and boosted himself up to sit next to her. "We're dealing with some seriously evil shit here. Vengeful spirits aren't those lonely old ghosts from stories, just clinging to a place that had meaning for them once. They're crazy to the core and they cause actual physical damage to the living." He shook his head. "There's nothing poetic or romantic about it, got that?"

"Yeah, yeah." Sharpay waved a careless hand at him. "But even crazy people think, they just think weird. So, why Ryan?" she asked again, and then her eyes widened. "Do you think the ghost is a homophobe?"

"Jenna Brady's a dyke?"

"Oh." Sharpay frowned, then turned her sly gaze on Dean once more. "What about you? Are you a homophobe?"

Dean shot her a glare. "My brother's fucking a guy, and I'm not giving him any crap about it. You're calling me a homophobe?"

She shrugged. "I don't think they've actually fucked yet. I mean, oral, sure, but if it had gone any further than that I know Ryan would have told me. Are you of the opinion that oral sex counts as fucking?"

Flushing, Dean stared at her in consternation. Sharpay’s pseudo-sweet and innocent act was really starting to get to him; particularly when she said shit like that. "Oh my god," he exclaimed, "do I _ever_ not want to talk about this!"

“You don’t like oral sex, Dean?” Her eyes were wide and round and her lips were pouty and red, and Dean resisted the urge to strangle her, just a little.

“For fuck’s sake, Sharpay, do you think you could maybe focus here? Eyes on the prize!”

“Sure, no problem,” she agreed, giving him a careless shrug. “You’re just so cute when you’re sexually frustrated, that’s all. You can’t expect me not to tease you.”

Dean groaned and was firing up to tell her _exactly_ what he thought of that, but she was spared by the sudden ringing of his cell phone. He pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. “What?”

“Dean, we’re looking for a body,” Sam answered, and Dean’s eyebrows rose.

“Seriously?” he asked. “So, wait, how’d you— motherfucker,” he muttered, and frowned down at his cell. “That jackass just hung up on me.”

“Well, what did the jackass say before he hung up on you?” Sharpay asked, all that sunshiney field trip curiosity back in her voice.

“He said we should be trying to find a corpse,” Dean muttered in answer, getting to his feet. He tipped his head back and scanned the rigging once more, wondering where else they should be checking.

“I thought we were looking for a spirit,” Sharpay replied, standing next to him and idly looking up as well.

“The spirit is _attached_ to the body,” Dean retorted, and dear heaven he hated working with amateurs.

“Okay, fine. So where are you going to look?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Nancy Drew!” That was it, he was losing his grip. Forget how hot her ass was — the girl could fucking exasperate the crap out of a Buddhist monk. “If I knew where to look I would have found it already!”

She rolled her eyes, apparently entirely unimpressed with his show of spit and fire. “Well, do you think it’s somewhere in the theater?” she asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “What with the connection to the drama kids, and all.”

_Must not snap. Must not snap. Must not_ — Dean’s thought process was suddenly interrupted by a pair of angry voices. It was just as well; his admonitions to himself had felt pretty futile anyway. Turning, he shoved his hands into his pockets and watched as Ryan stalked out from backstage, Sam hot on his heels.

"I can't fucking believe you never told me!" Sam shouted, and that right there could kind of be clue number one as to just how deep he was in with Ryan: Sam didn’t usually waste shouting on people he didn’t care about.

"Well, I am fucking sorry! Stuff like that doesn't exactly happen to me every day,” Ryan snarled back. “I figured I was hallucinating because of the godforsaken _heart attack_ I was having, or maybe I was just losing my friggin' mind!"

“God, can you believe them?” Sharpay muttered the question out of the corner of her mouth, and Dean snorted a laugh. “I swear, they spend more time fighting than fucking.”

Dean looked at her in surprise. “That’s exactly what I—“

“Dean, you are not going to fucking believe this,” Sam growled, and Ryan’s shoulders slumped. “The spirit _spoke_ to him. _Days_ ago!”

“Seriously?” Dean looked at Ryan in surprise. “That’s kind of rare, actually,” he added as an aside to Sharpay, who was staring at Ryan like he’d suddenly spoken a different language. “I mean, usually evil spirits aren’t big on communicating with the living. They just want to do their damage and get on with it.”

“She said, ‘Find me,’” Ryan muttered, staring at his shoes. Which kind of made sense to Dean, because they were some frickin’ weird shoes. Although he was pretty sure that Ryan had dressed himself that morning, so what was he so surprised about? “That was it.”

“Find me?” Sharpay asked in disbelief.

“Find me,” Dean echoed, and frowned at Sam. “What do you think? Murdered, body never found? No last rites, no burial, no justice?” He nodded. “That’d piss me off.”

“But so then why the hell is the spirit trying to communicate with the same kids she’s hurting?” Sam asked, obviously frustrated. “Like, ‘Oh let me quick tell you where my unfound body is hidden, because I’m going to kill you in a few seconds’? That makes no sense!”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s been a long time now, maybe she’s too pissed off to think straight anymore,” he suggested. “I’ve never known an evil spirit that was long on patience, anyway.”

“But—“

“This is so fucking cool,” Sharpay said, and all three guys turned to stare at her. She blinked, and then shook her head at her brother. “Not the part where some wacked-out ghost is trying to kill you, of course not that part,” she explained, although Ryan really didn’t look too comforted. “But the rest of it? Psycho spirit tearing through the veil between here and the afterlife, because she wants justice for how she was murdered so long ago?” She grinned. “That is so fucking cool!”

“Tearing through the veil?” Ryan muttered, still looking incredulous.

Dean rolled his eyes and then returned his attention to Sam. “Well, it certainly explains a lot of the things we couldn’t figure out. I mean, the day we left town we were sure it’d all be over because we’d taken care of Minnie. So yeah, we knew after that it couldn’t be her, definitely.”

“Minnie Winslow?” Sharpay asked curiously, but this time it was Ryan who interrupted.

“Left town?” he asked, and turned to look at Sam, his voice dangerously mild. “You left town?”

“Well— I mean....” Sam’s voice trailed off and he blanched beneath the weight of Ryan’s furious stare. “We thought we— we thought it was over,” he explained, and Dean took a step back. A moment later he put his hand on Sharpay’s shoulder and tugged her out of firing range as well, because _damn_ Sam was so obviously about to get it.

Dean couldn’t help but grin in anticipation.

* * *

"I can't believe you left town and didn't even fucking tell me!" 

Sam sighed and dragged a hand through his hair, and attempted to explain. "Ryan, I _tried,_ I just—“ 

"You did not!" Ryan protested, and it had anger boiling up through Sam’s frustration. 

"Yes, I did!” he insisted. “Your mom pulled a gun on me, Sharpay busted in, and you kissed me. And right after that I told you that I had to leave." 

Ryan exploded. "It was six fucking a.m., Sam! I thought you meant you were going home to shower!" 

“Your mom pulled a gun on him? Seriously?” Dean asked Sharpay, drawing Sam’s attention to where they were standing off to the side, watching him and Ryan.

“Oh yeah! My mom doesn’t take shit from anyone,” Sharpay answered, and Sam’s hands clenched into fists. 

“You two want to go make popcorn or something?” he shouted, spreading his arms wide and glaring at them. “Are we just the best fucking show here?”

“Cool it, Sammy,” Dean retorted, “this is—“ 

Dean stopped short at a sudden ominous creak from above, and Sam’s anxious gaze followed his. Sharpay whispered, “Do you think that’s—“ 

“Back!” Sam shouted, and grabbed Ryan’s hand, yanking him out of the way of the heavy velvet curtains. They were suddenly crashing down onto the stage like a tidal wave from above, dust flying and ropes snapping before the wood and steel supports bent, groaned, and then gave way altogether. The rigging smashed down with a force that shook the entire stage and a thunderous peal of sound that reverberated throughout the theater.

For a shocked instant the four of them could only press themselves against the brick wall at the back of the theater. Then Dean flew into motion, shoving Sharpay behind him and pulling a sawed-off shotgun from beneath his leather jacket. “Sticking around here is like standing next to a tree in a thunderstorm,” he snarled. 

"Stay," Sam bit out, then turned his back on Ryan so he could gingerly pick his way through the rubble to his duffel bag. He snatched up his own sawed-off, and started loading it with shotgun shells packed full of rock salt. “What haven’t we checked?” he asked. He didn’t even blink at the way Ryan stared at him, just resigned himself to the end of one more good thing. Mourning Ryan would have to wait until, well, until he'd saved Ryan.

“Come on, you two!” he snapped, trying to shock the twins into action. He tossed an extra box of shells to Dean, who stuffed the box into his jacket. 

“Um, the catwalk?” Ryan asked tentatively, still staring at Sam in horror. 

“Saw it. Nothing,” Dean retorted, and took Sharpay’s hand as he started inching closer to the wings, keeping his back to the brick wall. “What’s down there?” he asked, nodding downstage. “Any space beneath the stage?” 

“The trapdoor room, some old storage, that’s pretty much it,” she answered. 

“How do we get to the access hatch?” Sam asked, and Ryan pointed into the shadows of the wings. And this time Sam didn’t even have to prompt him; Ryan grabbed him by his free hand and started running. 

Ryan pulled open a door and slipped down a metal ladder with practiced ease. Sam followed without even thinking, and cracked his head on the hatch so hard he saw stars. “Ow, _fuck!”_ he yelped, and belatedly aimed his flashlight down. “Watch your head!” he called back ruefully, rubbing his forehead before slipping more carefully through the hatch. The stairs led to a brick-walled tunnel, roughly finished with a bare concrete floor. He ducked his head as he shone his flashlight down the short dusky path. Ryan was standing at the intersection of three pathways, his back to the far wall. 

“The trap is that way, and the newer motorized trap is in front of it,” Ryan said, pointing to his right. “And there’s some old storage space back there,” he pointed to his left, “but it hasn’t been used in forever.” 

“I want to see it,” Sam insisted, and shouldered further into the cramped space as Sharpay and then Dean stumbled down the ladder. 

"Damn," Dean muttered, glaring down at the concrete floor. "Couldn't be in a nice dirt cemetery, of course not."

“What? There’s really nothing—“ Sharpay began, but Sam ignored them both. He followed Ryan to the end of the short tunnel, and then watched as Ryan sorted through a ring of keys, trying one key after another. 

“Why is it locked if there’s nothing down here?” Dean asked quietly, and Ryan shrugged. 

“Just to keep kids out, I guess,” he replied, and then looked up at Sam in apology. “I don’t have the right one.” 

“It figures,” Sam muttered, and gently moved Ryan out of his way, pushing him back towards his sister and Dean. The door was just wood, and it looked pretty old, but he didn’t have much room to work in. Still, right now kicking it down would be a lot more satisfying than patiently trying to pick the lock. “Back up,” he ordered, and stepped back as far as he could. It would have to do. 

The force of his first kick jarred through him up to his hip, but the door stayed fast, though the wood creaked. Behind him, he could hear Dean snicker. “Want some help there, big guy?” Dean asked, but Sam just shook his head and went for it again.

This time the door splintered through, and Sam was able to reach his arm through to fumble around for the inner lock. He swung the door open against the protest of its rusty hinges, and held his hand out to Ryan for his flashlight. 

“See anything useful? Maybe an overhead lamp?” Dean called as Sam slipped into the cramped room. Sam shone his flashlight around the dusky interior, and his mouth twisted with frustration. 

“No... there’s nothing here but just some old crates,” Sam replied, and ignored Sharpay’s muttered ‘I told you so’ as she stepped up behind him. A moment later Dean was at his side to see for himself. “That’s it. No doors, no other passages out of here. And no concrete here,” Sam said, his eyes narrowing as he knelt to run a hand over the packed dirt floor. “Back there, it’s just the one tunnel leading to the trapdoors and that’s it?” he asked, just to be sure. 

“Yeah,” Sharpay replied, and shivered in a gust of icy air. “And that’s really all—“ 

A sudden sharp gasp cut her off, and Sam turned to see Ryan struggling violently. He was pinned against the wall several inches off the ground, kicking his feet at thin air. He clawed frantically at his throat. “Ryan!” Sharpay shrieked, and Dean shoved her behind him. He and Sam both whipped their shotguns to aim, and the sounds of the triggers cocking were sharp shots in the dimness. 

“What the fuck do we _shoot_?” Dean muttered desperately. Sam made a leap for Ryan and was knocked to his knees, some unseen force shoving him back into bitter cold. He blinked up, his vision blurry for an instant before— “Sam!” 

“I see it!” Sam shouted back, and stared as a hazy figure materialized behind Ryan, seeming to emerge from the wall. She was slight, shorter than Ryan even as she held him off the packed dirt floor, his body shielding her. His kicking feet drummed through the mists of her skirt. She had both hands closed tight around his throat.

“Get out of it, Sam, I can’t shoot!” Dean bellowed, and Sam pushed him back. 

“There’s no fucking room, you’ll hit—“ All the air rushed from Sam’s body, and his eyes widened as a thin trickle of blood began to well up on Ryan’s throat. There was no weapon, no wound, just those ghostly hands — impossibly the red line thickened, soon it would slash the width of Ryan’s neck and there would be nothing— “Let him go!” Sam shouted, trying to angle the barrel of his shotgun around Ryan, shoving himself at the brick wall like it would give way. “If you hurt him I fucking swear to God I will hurt you! I will find your bones. I will burn them. And I will _never_ tell the world what happened to you!”

Ryan choked, a horrible gurgling noise destined to haunt Sam forever. Blood bubbled up between ghostly fingers, streaking down over his pale skin. 

And just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Ryan crashed to the floor, falling forward onto Sam and knocking him back against the wall. 

* * *

Sam held Ryan close, cuddling him in his lap like a child while they waited. Dean had claimed Sharpay and raced back to the Impala for shovels, and maybe a sledgehammer, a crowbar... _something._ Something that might eat away at Sam's sense of helplessness. His flashlight beam weakly lit the walls, and he was on edge, alert for the slightest tremor of the air or a chill against his skin. But the minutes passed and there was nothing more in the darkness than the two of them, waiting.

“Is she going to kill me?” Ryan’s voice was sandpaper-hoarse, and Sam flinched from the question.

He tightened his embrace, and he tried to take comfort in the solid warmth of Ryan’s body, the subdued vitality of him. “If she were going to, she would have already,” Sam answered quietly, and silently prayed that it was the truth.

* * *

“Don’t bitch, just carry,” Dean grumbled, shoving a jug of kerosene into Sharpay’s arms. He took the ten-pound bag of rock salt as well, then kicked Sam’s duffel back into the corner. Rising to his feet, he shouldered the two spades and tucked the sack of salt beneath his arm.

“Oh well excuse me,” Sharpay snapped, holding the jug far away from her body with outstretched arms. “I didn’t know it was ghost-burning day. I would have dressed for the occasion.” 

Dean snorted a laugh and shook his head. “Sweetheart, you keep doing that and your arms’ll be killing you in two minutes flat. Or you can suck it up and get a little dirt on you. Your call.” 

“Do you know who designed this jacket? It was—“ 

“ _Don’t_... tell me,” Dean cut in. He hitched up the shovels more firmly, then turned carefully so as to avoid knocking anything over. Or knocking anyone _out_ , although... He frowned and navigated their way to the access hatch through the backstage detritus. “I already saw what Sammy came home with after Ryan’s little shopping spree.” 

Now it was Sharpay snorting incredulously. “That’s more style than a Winchester knows what to do with, obviously,” she retorted, but Dean just ignored her and pulled the hatch open. “Dean,” she said suddenly, and her urgent tone made him turn his head. 

“What?” he asked, after she didn’t speak again for a long moment. “Look honey, we’re kind of in a time crunch here, so if—“ 

“I just want to know if Ryan’s going to be okay,” she interrupted, the words spilling out in a rush. “I mean, I saw the bleeding stop. But... I mean, will the ghost...?” 

Dean sighed and tipped the shovels to brace against the floor. “Will the ghost try to hurt him again?” he hazarded, and she nodded. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. And maybe he should have stopped there, but something compelled him to be straight with her. “Maybe. Probably.” Okay, yeah, judging by the look on her face now, he definitely should have quit while he was ahead. “Sharpay, we’re doing everything we can to keep that from happening. And I mean you and me, right now,” he pointed out, and bent over to carefully drop the spades down to the concrete floor of the tunnel. Then he gestured towards the kerosene again. “You’re saving your brother’s life, you badass. Who the hell cares about designer jackets when you’re busy being a superhero?” 

She rewarded his bravado with a tentative smile. Then she gave in and hugged the jug to her chest in a firmer grip. “Call me Bond,” she said airily, and slipped past him to climb down the ladder, her free hand slapping against the rungs. 

“Yeah, I’ll call you Bond when you call me Batman,” he muttered, but couldn’t help grinning as he reached down to hand her the flashlight. He carefully made his way down the ladder, then shouldered the spades once again, awkward against the low ceiling. 

“All right, Batman,” she replied, and Dean was glad the dimness hid his expression, because he sure hadn’t meant for her to hear that. Still feeling bemused - and maybe a touch embarrassed - he was grateful for the distraction when she asked, “What’s with the guns? Aren’t you supposed to fight ghosts with, I don’t know. Silver stakes? Laser beams?” 

“You watch too much TV,” he answered. “Although silver's good against some creatures, that part’s true. I don’t know anything about lasers. And if I don’t know how a weapon works, then I’m not using it.” He shifted to carry the shovels beneath his arm. “Anyway, you can’t get rid of a spirit with weapons, but there are some things that hurt them. Rock salt, cold iron — those things give ‘em a nasty little bite, and buy you some time to get your shit together.” 

“And so your shotgun shells are filled with salt,” she concluded, her tone thoughtful. “So after you take down a ghost, do you ever kick back with your leftover bullets and a bottle of tequila?” 

Pausing, Dean turned his head to look at her in the dusk. “You know, every now and again,” he said, “I think you might just be my kind of girl.”

“I’m flattered,” she replied, her dry tone implying that the honor was in fact all his. But she did shoot him a saucy wink before turning the corner and strolling off to the storage space. 

When they ducked into the cramped space, Sam gently shifted Ryan out of his lap, then got to his feet. “Sharpay,” he said, reaching out to grab one of the spades from Dean, “maybe you want to take Ryan and hang out in the tunnel while we do this.” 

“We’re not leaving,” Ryan said immediately. He took the flashlight from Sharpay. 

“Not unless you’re giving us the shotguns,” she added, setting down the jug of kerosene. She glanced around before reaching over and wiping her hands on Dean’s jacket. 

He raised an eyebrow at that, but merely asked, “Do either of you know how to shoot?” 

Sharpay shrugged. “No.” 

“Then no,” he answered, leaning his spade against the rough brick wall until he had a better idea just where to dig. “It’s bad enough having you two down here at all — I’m not going to arm you, too.” 

“Fine, but we’re staying,” Ryan said quietly, and squeezed himself into the far corner, which was admittedly not very far. 

“Fine,” Sam replied, sounding weary down to his bones. He rammed his shovel into the packed dirt floor, then hunched his shoulders and sank his full weight into it. 

“Are you going to dig up the whole room?” 

“I hope not,” Dean answered, glancing aside at Sharpay. “I’m hoping we get lucky before then.” 

“Finding a dead body is lucky,” she echoed. “It must be another day of fun with the Winchester boys.” 

“Hey. Never let it be said that we don’t show girls a good time,” Dean said with a smile. A second later he realized his mistake, and his gaze guiltily crossed Ryan’s before he glanced away. 

“She came from here,” Sam said, a little louder than he needed to. But his rhythm didn’t slow or break as he spoke. “This wall. So we start here.” 

They watched him in tense silence for a few minutes, until sweat was beginning to bead on Sam’s brow. “Leave off,” Dean murmured, and Sam made another strike at the hard earth before giving way. Dean moved in to take his place, taking the spade from Sam’s hands. He drove the blade into the ground and felt the shock all the way up his arm. “Damn it.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Really hard. Not rocky, though. And a lot more clay than I was expecting.”

“Why would someone be buried under the theater anyway?” Sharpay asked, kicking away some of the loosened dirt. Dean was silently impressed that she’d dare sully her boots.

“Because it wasn’t the theater back then,” he answered, and huffed out a breath. He decided to change tactics, and speared the shovel shallowly into the ground to break up the top layers of earth. “This was outside, then. The theater wasn’t built until the 60s.”

“Minnie Winslow’s body was found here,” Sam added, and grabbed the second shovel to start chipping away at the ground around where Dean was working.

“Here, like _here_ here?” Sharpay looked horrified, but she sounded fascinated.

“Here here here,” Dean confirmed, and then shook his head. “Whatever the hell all those extras mean.”

“But you said it’s not Minnie,” Ryan reminded them as he set his flashlight down on an up-ended crate, angling it to shine on their work. Dean was surprised when he then got busy breaking another of the old crates into pieces. Ryan hefted a splintered two-by-four in his hands, and started using it to churn up the earth around his feet.

“It’s not, but...” Sam trailed off, then added, "we're pretty sure that Minnie and this spirit were linked somehow. I don't believe in coincidences that gigantic."

“Pretty sure? Oh _god,_ ” Sharpay said after a moment. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you? You have no idea what you’re doing.”

“Hey sweetheart,” Dean snapped, “the peanut gallery is upstairs. If you’re gonna stay down here, then—“ 

“You know, I’ve noticed,” Sharpay interrupted in a voice of exaggerated insight, “you always call me ‘sweetheart’ right before you turn back into a condescending dick.”

“Is that so?” Dean drove his shovel into the earth and leaned on it, glaring at her. “Maybe that’s because—“

“Over here,” Ryan said, so softly that Dean barely heard him. But Sam froze in an instant.

“What’s that?” Dean turned to look at Ryan.

“I said, it’s over here. The ground is different,” Ryan replied quietly, and kicked at a pile of loose soil. “No clay. And it’s cold. And...” He shrugged.

“And what?” Sam asked, already at work shoveling away the earth Ryan had churned up, leaving a narrow hole nearly two feet deep.

“And... I know it’s here, is all,” Ryan said, looking embarrassed. “She’s here, I mean.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “Is she talking to you again?” he asked, digging in and swiftly widening the hole. He kicked at the side of it, and watched the fine soil fall in on itself.

“No. I just—“

“Know, right,” Dean finished, and waited for Sam’s upstroke before he drove his shovel into the ground again. The work went quickly now, and the piles of dirt shoveled aside grew as they dug a deep trench where Ryan had directed them. “If all this was just barren whatever, not used as a sports field or anything, then it’s possible that someone mucking around here wouldn’t have been noticed right away.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Plus, if—“ he took an abrupt step back. “Stop digging,” he ordered, and knelt inside the trench. It was a good four feet deep now, and he leaned down to push his hands into the loose dirt. “I think I felt something.”

Hopping down to kneel opposite him, Dean started scrounging around as well. He brushed something solid, and closed his hand around it. “Maybe a thing like...” he struggled against initial resistance, but then pulled the object free like it was floating in water. “This,” he concluded, studying the bone balanced on his palm.

“Oh my god,” Sharpay exclaimed. She grabbed Ryan’s hand and pulled him a step back, but he shrugged free of her and crowded next to Sam.

“Humerus?” Dean asked, and Sam nodded.

“Looks like.” He leaned down and swept his arm wide across the earth, then scooped fistfuls out with his hands. Dean saw a flash of white beneath Sam’s fingers, and sure enough Sam paused, then brushed away the dirt more cautiously. “And there’s our girl.”

“That’s it?” Sharpay asked, leaning in to stare at the barren skull.

“That’s her,” Ryan corrected softly, and shivered. “Feel her neck.”

Sam looked at him in question, but stroked his fingers down, brushing away more loose earth. “Right there,” he breathed, and Dean sat back on his heels.

“A machete could leave a mark on the bone like that,” he mused, feeling the jagged rut on the vertebra with his fingers. “Or a butcher knife, used with enough force. Probably not something smaller.”

“One deep gash across the throat,” Sam murmured, echoing the description from their father’s journal, the entry when he’d detailed all the East High victims. “And if she was killed here, her blood would have run into the dirt. Soaked in.” 

“And so all the kids she killed ended up the same way.” Dean nodded, and took a moment to absorb all the gruesome details. “All right, let’s get to work. If we’re going to end her, then we’ve got to get every single piece of her.”

“You’re going to dig up her whole skeleton?” Sharpay asked, backing away.

“If we don’t do the whole thing, we might as well not do it at all,” Dean answered, and held out the two-by-four Ryan had been digging with. “So if you’re going to insist on being here, then you’re going to help. Sweetheart.”

* * *

“Sharpay Evans, brilliant yet fashionable girl paleontologist, at the site of her latest amazing find.” Sharpay sat back on her heels and spoke for an imaginary camera, holding a flashlight like a microphone.

“Paleontologists study dinosaurs,” Ryan told her, and shoved another pile of dirt out of the trench they were working in. The thin trail of blood on his neck had dried to a dark streak. It was only a shallow cut, already scabbing over, and he had to keep reminding himself not to touch it with his dirty fingers. He shuddered abruptly as the realization smashed into him again — the knowledge that, if not for Sam, the thin scratch would have swiftly become a deep gash. And things would have been over fast. 

Shaking off the thought - again - Ryan trailed his hand through the loose earth, watching the tracks his fingers left behind. Slowly a complete skeleton had emerged as they worked, and they were taking care to make sure that none of the bones were disturbed — so that nothing would get misplaced and inadvertently survive the burning. At least, Sam, Dean, and Ryan were working. “You could help, you know. Brilliant girl scientist.”

“Ryan, please,” she huffed. Ryan knew that only he could detect that tremulous edge to her voice. “The very idea.” 

“At least aim the flashlight over here where it’ll do some good, all right?” Dean shot her an exasperated look, which she returned in kind. But she did point the flashlight back where they needed it.

Contrary to his own words, Ryan sat back on his heels and watched them work for a few seconds. He still felt so cold, like he had in the instants before he'd been slammed against the wall, his throat so tight he couldn't fucking breathe. It was driving him crazy, that tense terror that any second now it could happen again. “Should we be looking for a murder weapon?” he asked quietly, trying to distract himself from his own fears. He looked up to watch the way the harsh beam of light threw half of Sam’s face into sharp relief, and hid the rest in shadow. “Do you have any idea who killed her?”

“Not a clue,” Sam muttered, and Ryan could hear the frustration in his voice. “A murder weapon would be nice, sure.”

“As long as we’re wishing, why don’t we just wish for a signed confession from the murderer,” Dean suggested, and scooped a handful of earth away. “This is probably as good as it’s gonna get,” he told Ryan, meeting his eyes in the dim light. “We can set her spirit to rest. And we can do some digging through the county records to see if any teenage girls went missing around here, back when we think this happened. But a case like this, cold for sixty years now?” Dean shook his head. “We’re probably not going to be able to figure out who did it.”

“We’ll be lucky if we can even determine who she was,” Sam agreed, and stood up, hunching a bit beneath the low ceiling. He brushed dirt from his hands, and then picked up the burlap sack of rock salt Dean had fetched. He slit it open with a pocket knife, but then he paused. “Are we doing this here?” he asked, looking at his brother in question.

Dean thought for a moment, frowning. “If we seal off the trap doors and leave the access hatch open, the tunnel will make a perfect flue because the hatch will be the only source of air."

"That means once the fire starts, it'll move damn fucking fast through the tunnel to the vent," Sam cut in, looking up to meet his brother's eyes in the gloom.

"Right," Dean nodded. "So we’ll need to light her up, run like hell, bolt up the ladder... and then give it a few seconds before we seal the hatch up tight.” Ryan considered it as Dean explained, picturing the chain of events from spark to inferno. "Yeah, that's the way we'll work it. Only one way out, burning up the oxygen fast. And once we shut the hatch it'll put itself out." 

Sharpay gasped. “You’re going to set fire to the school? But— but we’re in rehearsals for the fall play! I have the lead role!”

“Hey. Bond,” Dean said, giving her a look. “Saving your brother’s life, remember?” 

She frowned, but turned a worried gaze on Ryan. He deliberately looked away, not wanting to meet her eyes.

“The tunnel’s mostly brick and concrete,” Sam reminded her. “If we do it right, the fire will be contained down here.”

“If,” Shar muttered, but Ryan caught her sneaking another glance at him. He knew she was scared. Just as he knew that his own forced nonchalance wasn't fooling her for a second. 

“I trust them,” he told her quietly, and Dean shot him an incredulous look.

“Uh. Okay, thanks for that vote of confidence,” he said sarcastically, but then added in a more serious tone, “of course, you’re the one marked for death, so I guess your vote matters the most.”

“Dean!” Sam growled, and Dean waved him off.

“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Dean said, and the look he gave Ryan now was nearly apologetic. Nearly, which Ryan figured probably counted for a lot with Dean. “Okay, you two chuckleheads get upstairs,” he ordered Ryan and Shar. “Grab anything that doesn’t look super-flammable, and start sealing up the edges of the trap doors, both the old one and the new one.”

“I’m not leaving,” Ryan interjected, and when the hell were they going to accept that already? He shivered violently, and it only made him more determined. “I’m staying with Sam.”

“Actually I vote for that plan, too,” Sam said, watching Dean. “I’m not comfortable sending him off without one of us stuck to him like glue.” Dean opened his mouth – probably to protest, it seemed like Dean’s MO – but Sam rolled right over him. “You and Sharpay go up. You’ll have a better idea what to grab for the traps, anyway. Ryan will stay with me, we’ll start the fire, and then we’ll handle the running like hell.”

Dean frowned at Sam for a long moment, but then got up without another word. He grabbed the shovels, then kicked at some of the wooden crates, shoving them closer to the trench. “Good tinder,” he explained, and held out his free hand to Sharpay. “Let’s go, Bond. We’ve got important reckless adventurer stuff to do.”

“Right behind you, Batman,” she answered, and Sam snickered softly. 

“Shut up,” Dean ordered out of the corner of his mouth, and ducked out of the storage room into the tunnel.

Sam waited until the sound of their footsteps faded, then turned his serious gaze on Ryan. “You okay?” he asked softly. The distance between them felt so cold, so empty. Ryan wanted to throw himself on Sam, lose himself in all that strength and let himself believe that Sam could fix everything. But he knew that wouldn't do Sam any favors. Restraining himself, Ryan reached out to just touch his hand. 

“Yeah,” he answered, and linked their fingers together before adding, “don’t worry about me, I’m a real badass.” The joke sounded flat even to Ryan’s ears, and he shook it off. Then he gestured towards the bag of rock salt. “Let’s just do this. What’s next?”

“Next...” Sam sighed as he looked down at the skeleton lying in the dirt. He let go of Ryan and then began to shake out a thin layer of salt, starting at the skull and working his way down. “Grab the kerosene.”

Ryan looked over his shoulder and snagged the jug. He unscrewed the cap and waited as Sam poured salt on the bones of the feet, then made a second trail back up to the skull. He set the sack aside – it was mostly empty now – and reached to take the kerosene from Ryan.

Drawing back so he wouldn't get splashed, Ryan grabbed the pieces of the crate he'd busted up, and tossed the splintered chunks into the trench. Pushing to his feet, he stepped back and brushed dirt from his hands. He knew it was pretty pointless — surely he had dirt everywhere by now. But he did it anyway. “Sam?”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, standing up. He tossed the empty jug into a corner, then felt in his pockets and pulled out a book of matches.

“Exactly how fast does ‘running like hell’ entail?”

Sam looked up to meet his eyes. Then he reached out and took Ryan’s hand, drawing him close. The kiss was soft, tender, but Ryan could feel the tight undercurrent of tension running through Sam’s body. Ryan reached up to tangle his fingers in Sam’s hair, and kissed him back with an edge of desperation. “When we get out of here,” Ryan whispered, still clinging tight, “I might consider forgiving you.”

Surprised, Sam drew back to look at him. “Forgiving me...?”

“For leaving town without telling me,” Ryan reminded him, forcing a shade of amusement into his voice.

“Ahh. Got it.” Sam ducked his head on a grin. “Yeah, I... I think we need to talk. About a lot of things. But first...” he gestured at the storage room around them. “Go wait in the hall, and I’ll fire this up.”

“All right,” Ryan agreed reluctantly. He didn’t want to be out of Sam’s view, or have Sam out of his. But even more than that, he didn’t want to stand there and watch while Sam set fire to a 60 year-old corpse — whether it belonged to a vicious spirit or not.

He stepped out into the tunnel. The air seemed fresher, cooler out here in comparison to the cramped space. Leaning tensely back against the wall, he waited, expecting Sam to come rocketing out of the room at any instant, flames billowing up behind him. And he... waited. “Sam?” he called, curious.

There was no answer.

“Sam!” Ryan dashed the few steps back to the storage room, then froze in horror. Sam knelt over the trench, his eyes wide and shocked as he scrabbled frantically for his shotgun. He struggled against the ghostly figure rising from the trench, her hands wrapped tightly around his neck. Blood started welling up in a line on his throat, and Sam clutched at the pale fingers, straining to pull them away. More blood dripped down onto his shirt.

“Oh _hell_ no,” Ryan snarled. He snatched up the book of matches Sam had dropped. His fingers were shaking so much that he couldn’t get the match to light on the first try, but in the next second it flared. He pushed his hand into cold mist and fought to ignore the way his skin crawled.

The instant he dropped the match they were blasted with heat. Ryan grabbed Sam’s arm and yanked him back from the trench. “Now! Move!” he shouted over the roaring flames, and tugged at Sam's bulk, struggling to get him up. An unearthly shriek split the air. Sparks leapt up to pepper them with burns, and finally Sam gasped and stumbled to his feet, shoving Ryan out the door.

_Oh God. God. God_. Ryan ran faster than he ever had in his life, screams filling his ears. Every pounding footstep jarred through him and a massive wall of heat pushed at them, like a giant hand at their backs. He scrambled up the ladder, missing a rung but not slipping, not stumbling, Sam was behind him, Ryan could just barely hear his hoarse breathing over the roar of the flames—

“Move move move!” Dean shouted, closing an iron fist around Ryan’s arm and yanking him up the last couple of feet. The second Ryan collapsed on the floor Dean shoved him aside, making room for Sam. Sam rolled away from the ladder and Dean slammed the hatch shut. Sharpay was ready and waiting, and she and Dean dug their heels in and shoved a piece of furniture over the hatch. Ryan recognized it as a bureau from the green room, massive and on its back... and sealing the edges of the access hatch. 

“She got you?” Dean turned on Sam and pointed the flashlight's beam at his brother’s throat, reaching for him. “Your neck, she—“

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Sam slapped Dean’s dirty hand away and sat up. He was still breathing heavily. Ryan thought that he himself would probably be hoarse for life, not to mention filthy and terrified.

And... elated.

“We did it,” he said in a tone of wonder. Sam eyed him like he’d lost his mind. “Oh, sure,” Ryan said, and laughed. He heard the hysterical edge in his voice. And he didn’t care. “Now _I’m_ the crazy one?” He got to his feet and grinned down at Sam, holding out a hand to help him up.

Slowly, Sam reached up and clasped Ryan’s hand, then pushed himself to his feet.

“Yeah,” he said, a faint grin teasing at his lips. “We did.”

* * *

“Our best guess is a girl named Celia Smithson. She was reported missing the day after Minnie Winslow’s murder, but it really didn’t get any press because of the big flap over Minnie.” Sam held out a piece of paper, then sat down next to Ryan. Ryan frowned down at the photocopied news article. “Six months later, Celia’s family took out an ad in the _Albuquerque Gazette_ , offering a reward for information on her whereabouts. They got a few responses, but never any firm info.”

“God, that’s sad,” Ryan murmured. Sam handed over another Xeroxed sheet. The grainy black-and-white photo showed a teenage girl smiling shyly for the camera, one shoulder dipped in a demure come-hither pose. “Very Veronica Lake,” he observed, and traced his fingertip over the girl’s light-colored hair, falling in waves past her chin. “No one had any idea what happened to her?”

“Nope.” Sam sighed, and put his arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “Minnie’s family had a lot of money, and could command a lot of attention. The city was in an uproar trying to find her murderer. A girl who was just missing – one whose father wasn’t a leading local businessman – couldn’t attract much interest in Minnie’s shadow.”

“Just like always, huh?” Ryan bit down on his lower lip. “You and Dean are still figuring on the theory that her spirit was angry because no one ever knew what happened to her?”

“Right. And they probably had the same murderer, just going on likelihood.” Sam’s fingers moved in an aimless caress over Ryan’s nape, and Ryan shivered, drawing closer. “If anything, we’re guessing that Celia was actually the initial target. It’s only in movies that a killer makes a perfect deep slash across someone’s throat while they’re running by at twenty miles an hour,” he explained. “Minnie bled to death from seven stab wounds. That kind of thing, that’s frantic. Fast and messy. Celia’s wound... well, it seemed a lot more deliberate.” Sam shrugged, and looked at Ryan apologetically. “Dean thinks Minnie was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like, she stumbled on the murderer right after he killed Celia.”

“God, I can’t believe you know all this stuff,” Ryan muttered, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Then he looked at Sam in question. “Dean thinks that,” he echoed. “What do you think?”

“I...” Sam trailed off, and appeared to give his answer serious thought. “I think Dean’s probably right about this.” Ryan shook his head, opening his mouth to protest, but Sam cut him off. “I hate not knowing,” he said quietly, and his frown deepened. “I _despise_ not knowing. I want it all to add up, to make sense. At least for there to be some kind of logical explanation. But Dean’s right, this case is way too old, and the police never found any good clues to start with.” He sighed. “I need to accept that we’re not going to be able to wrap this one up all neat and tidy.”

That acceptance wasn’t going to be easy to come by, obviously. Ryan could see how much it disturbed Sam, the fact that he’d never _know_. Not for certain. “You kind of promised the spirit that you’d tell the world what happened to her.”

“Yeah. I know.” The desolation in Sam’s eyes deepened.

“But then she tried to kill you.” Ryan laid his hand on Sam’s cheek, coaxing him to meet his eyes. “I say that relieves you of any obligations to be nice and fair, you know? She had a chance for you to help her, and she went all psycho on us instead.” He nodded. “Screw that.”

Sam huffed a soft laugh, staring at Ryan in something that looked like wonder. “Screw that?” he repeated, and linked his fingers with Ryan’s. “Yeah. I guess you’re right, too.”

“Of course I am.” Ryan’s tone was flippant, though he felt deadly serious. “Definitely let this one go.” He leaned in close and pressed his lips to Sam’s, trying to distract him. Draw him deeper. Sam slid his hands up Ryan’s back, and Ryan could feel the tension beginning to melt out of his rigid frame.

Until Sam drew away.

“Speaking of letting go,” he whispered, and Ryan couldn’t help but wince.

“Right,” Ryan whispered back, and trailed his fingers over the clean line of Sam’s jaw. He tried to steel himself for this, the conversation he’d realized they would have to have.

He just wished it hadn’t come so soon.

“So... that’s it?”

“Yep,” Sam agreed with a sigh. “That’s it, case closed. I was only set up at East High to track down the thing that was murdering the students, so we could take care of it. So we could stop it. And now, we have,” he explained. “So now we’ll move on, and find the next spirit, or cursed artifact, or vampire—“

“Vampires?” Ryan broke in, disbelief heavy in his voice.

“Yeah, don’t get me started,” Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Or, you know, shapeshifter or witch or changeling or whatever.”

Ryan’s brows rose. “Now you’re just mocking me.”

“I’m serious,” Sam laughed, totally unapologetic. “I’m telling you, we get all kinds. And then,” he shrugged, “well, we _get_ them. And then we move on again.”

This time his sigh sounded tired, and Ryan fought against the urge to take Sam into his arms and kiss all his demons away. “And this is what you do,” he murmured after a moment spent trying to digest all that. “You and Dean.”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded. “This is what we do.”

Three weeks ago... it would have been impossible to believe. But now, Ryan reflected wryly, one way-too-close encounter with a pissed-off spirit made the most outrageous story sound totally reasonable. “All right. So you two, you’re the big ghostbusting cowboys, huh?” He grinned, and was rewarded with Sam’s laugh again.

“Yeah,” Sam admitted. “Something like that.”

Ryan nodded and hitched a little closer, tracing his fingertip along Sam’s palm. “Do you think you might be able to swing back this way sometime?” he asked, hope in his smile. “Maybe on your off days, when you really need a break from it all? I know a great spa,” he teased.

But the light in Sam’s eyes died instantly, and he chewed on his lip before he spoke again. “Usually, it’s us chasing down the bad guys,” he said slowly, his voice dropping low. “But not always. Sometimes... sometimes they find us.” He watched Ryan with steady concentration. “People we’re around... people tend to get hurt.”

Taking it all in, Ryan nodded again. “I can see how that would be,” he said softly, wanting to deny the possibility and reassure Sam, all at once. “But you can’t let fear get in the way of living, right?”

Sam huffed a laugh. “Fear. Right,” he whispered, and his mouth twisted in pain. “Look, Ryan... don’t take this the wrong way, all right?”

_But_ , Ryan’s mind silently supplied, and sure enough, a moment later Sam echoed him.

“But... I’d give up any chance of ever seeing you again, just to know that you’re safe.”

The words struck Ryan like a fist to his gut, pain radiating through him even as he tried to get his breath back. “Right,” he whispered, struggling to keep his composure. His mouth was suddenly dry, and his mind raced through one angry protest after another. Somehow he knew that this was one time that he simply wasn’t going to be able to wear Sam down, no matter how hard he tried.

And if this was truly to be his and Sam’s last night together – ever, by the looks of it – then he definitely didn’t want to waste it this way.

“So... then I guess we should make this good, huh?” he said quietly, giving Sam a forced smile.

"This?"

Ryan gestured at his neatly made bed, then laid a hand on Sam's thigh. "This," he confirmed.

“Ryan, it’s always good between us,” Sam answered with a soft chuckle, and Ryan nearly melted.

“All right. So then we should make it special,” he replied, meeting Sam’s eyes.

“Special,” Sam repeated, and he swallowed hard, nervousness flashing across his face for an instant. “Um, look. I should tell you... we’ve already reached the limits of my experience with other guys, okay?” He shrugged like it was no big thing, but Ryan knew him well enough now to read that gesture as a mere cover, and a thin one at that.

“You mean... you never...?” Ryan let the question trail off, his gaze sharpening.

“Yeah,” Sam muttered, “that. I never.”

Ryan’s smile turned genuine. “Don’t worry,” he said, wickedness dancing through him. “I’ll talk you through it.”

* * *

Ryan sucked gently at Sam’s bottom lip, grinning when that luscious mouth curved in a smile. Sam’s hands were warm against his bare back, his fingers tracing aimless patterns on Ryan’s skin, and his body... _Oh god, his body._ Ryan had never before felt anything quite so heavenly as the wickedly wonderful feel of Sam’s naked body pressed against his own. 

He shifted, slipping to straddle Sam’s thighs and gasping at the press of his erection, hot and hard and insistent. 

Sam groaned. “Ryan, I—“ 

“I know. Give me just a sec,” Ryan interrupted, sitting up and yanking open the drawer of his bedside table. 

“Yeah, but—“ 

“It’s okay, I have lube,” Ryan said. Not like Sam couldn’t see that for himself now, as Ryan laid back on the bed and propped himself up on one elbow. He reached down and pressed one slick finger into himself. He couldn’t meet Sam’s eyes, self-conscious as it made him feel. But he could feel Sam’s gaze burning into him, every bit of that driving intensity completely focused. 

It made Ryan shiver, and he pushed another finger into his body, wincing for just an instant at the sharp burn. 

“Ryan, I've been trying to tell you.” Sam’s voice sounded strained and Ryan looked up, seeing the cost of self-control standing stark in those green eyes. “I, um. I’ve never even done this with a girl.” 

The confession warmed Ryan through, unexpected – unnecessary, even – as it was. “Good,” he retorted, grinning at Sam through the pounding rush of his heartbeat. “Then you’ll have nothing to compare it to.” 

“I don’t know, if you think I would ever compare you to _anything_...” Sam muttered, but let his voice trail off. Ryan swallowed hard and pushed to his knees, wiping his hand on the bed linens. Like he cared about 800 thread-count sheets at a time like this. He tore open a condom packet in a rush, but then took his time unrolling the rubber onto Sam’s cock, letting anticipation sizzle through him. Through both of them. 

Now Ryan kept his gaze locked on Sam’s face as he rose over him, fitting the crown of Sam’s cock to his body, then slowly pushing down. And... pushing. And taking a deep breath and— “Oh god, oww,” Ryan gasped, bracing his hands on Sam’s chest. 

“What— is it— do you—?” 

“No no no,” Ryan insisted, and his mind was so damn blurry right now that he didn’t even care how nonsensical that response was. “I just need to— fuck!” He jerked back again, sucking in a deep breath against the burning flash of pain. 

“Ryan, we don’t need to—“ 

“Yes we _do_ ,” Ryan interrupted, and gritted his teeth. They were _doing_ this, damn it. He was going to make it happen. He reached back and wrapped his hand around Sam’s erection, then hissed as he tried to guide it inside once more. But – lube or not – his body just wasn’t ready. And he hadn’t had much practice with all this, not that he would admit that to Sam. Just those few secretive encounters last winter at the chalet with Aidan Mahler, and while those hadn’t been exactly comfortable, Ryan knew Aidan had _nothing_ on Sam. 




“Ryan, stop,” Sam ordered, closing his hands around Ryan’s shoulders. 

“No, I want to—“ 

“I want to _stop_ ,” Sam insisted, and Ryan stared at him, pummeled by a dizzying rush of shame and lust and pain. His embarrassment must have been shining in his eyes, because Sam tenderly caressed his cheek. “We don’t need to do this,” he said, softer this time. 

Ryan swallowed hard. How could Sam not understand? It was their last night together, ever. In the morning Sam would climb into Dean’s ridiculously over-compensating muscle car and drive away into the thick of the world, off to live hard and meet fascinating people... and forget all about him. “I want to be able to give you this,” he whispered, feeling his cheeks burn. “I want to.” 

Sam frowned faintly, and shook his head. “It’s not good for me if it hurts you,” he whispered, and grasped Ryan’s hips, pushing him off and to his back on the bed. Then he smiled, a quick flash of that self-deprecating grin. “And why should this all be about me, anyway?” 

His brow furrowing, Ryan opened his mouth to argue, explain, _something_ , but then Sam threw a heavy thigh over his and leaned in to lick at Ryan’s collarbone. 

And Ryan’s protests melted away entirely. 

“You can give me something else no one ever has,” Sam whispered, flicking his tongue down Ryan’s chest. It was tempting to ask Sam what he meant by that, but – _ohgod_ – it was also tempting to just shut the hell up and let Sam do whatever he damn well pleased. Option number two was looking _really_ good right now. 

Ryan gasped as Sam nibbled his way down his belly, then whimpered when Sam’s long fingers closed around his cock. Sam chuckled, a soft rumble of sound in the moonlit darkness, and he began to stroke, sending streaks of pleasure sparking up Ryan’s spine like fire. Ryan could feel his body nearly quivering now, his muscles taut with lust. And when Sam licked out and lapped at the head of Ryan’s cock, Ryan cried out, burying his fingers in Sam’s thick hair. 

“Oh god,” he whispered, reverent as prayer, and whimpered under his breath. Sam’s mouth was wet and searching, his hand hot and insistent, and really it was all over embarrassingly quickly. At least, Ryan _would_ have been embarrassed – golden aftershocks still licking through him and Sam shining like a gorgeous pagan god in the moonlight – except that Sam looked pretty damn pleased with himself. 

So, really — Ryan figured it would be ungrateful for him to feel anything but completely thrilled. 

“Come here,” he whispered, but Sam was already moving, prowling up Ryan’s body to lie down beside him. Ryan immediately went into his arms and kissed him deeply, seeking out his own flavor in Sam’s mouth. Marveling at this moment he'd never expected to experience. 

And now it was Sam’s turn to moan as Ryan slipped his hand between their bodies, closing his fist around the warm weight of Sam’s cock. Sam’s breath stuttered hot against his neck and Ryan’s fingers traveled over him, slowly exploring the satin smoothness, teasing at each velvet fold. Even now, awash as he was in satisfaction, Ryan felt an urgency to somehow leave his imprint. To make Sam remember him. 

He pushed Sam to his back, rolling to cover him, kiss him. Working Sam’s cock in a smooth rhythm, he pushed up to lick at his lips and then dipped to press kisses to the vulnerable flesh of his throat. Sam’s chest hitched against his and Ryan could feel how his heart was racing, each hot vital pulse pumping through him. 

“I want to mark you,” Ryan whispered, easing back just enough so he could see Sam’s eyes in the dimness. Sam looked at him quizzically for a moment, not understanding. Then he nodded. 

“Okay.” 

That whisper was all Ryan needed to hear, permission and reassurance in one. He stroked Sam off, each pull smooth and deliberate. Pressing his lips to Sam’s neck, he trapped the bounding pulse beneath his mouth. Sam’s heartbeat quickened further and Ryan sucked hard, bruising him in a hot rush. 

Sam gasped, his back arching as he came in a flood. Ryan’s fingers slipped in the slick heat but then Sam’s hands were in his hair, Sam’s body pinning him to the bed, and Ryan forgot about everything but kissing Sam back, that luscious mouth hard and demanding. When Sam finally eased away they were both breathless. 

Ryan watched as Sam lifted a tentative hand to his throat, his fingers seeking out tender flesh. Ryan reached out too and covered his hand, his own fingertips tracing over the livid mark on Sam’s neck. “Too much?” he whispered, feeling the pulse beat wildly beneath the skin. 

With a soft laugh, Sam shook his head. “I think I can take it,” he whispered back, lacing their fingers together. 

* * *

"Okay, now tell me again."

Ryan sighed, and Sam was pretty certain that was exasperation beginning to creep into his voice, further weighing down the weariness that was already there. "Sam, I've got it."

"Good. I know." Sam nodded, staring up at the moonlit shadows crossing the ceiling, and tracing his fingers aimlessly over Ryan's bare shoulder. "Just humor me then."

This time it was a soft groan, but Ryan gave in and answered anyway. "Cold spots. Electrical interference. Fritzing lights and stuff like that. Salt and iron. That's ghosts. Then demons... that's sulfur, and rotten egg smells, and holy water."

"Good," Sam said again. "And... what about vampires?"

"Vampires," Ryan muttered, and moved to lay his cheek against Sam's chest. "Decapitation. Which is just stupid for you to teach me anyway, you know that. And dead man's blood hurts them but doesn't kill them, and I don't care how paranoid you are, Sam, I'm not going to start carrying that shit around with me."

Sam rolled his eyes at the ceiling but didn't argue. Okay, so maybe he was going a little overboard. But... "Yeah, all right." He sighed, and bit his lower lip, trying to keep quiet. That lasted for about three seconds. Then he couldn't stop himself from piping up again. "Down here this close to the Mexican border it's not at all unlikely that you might run into a chupacabra." 

"Chupa-what?"

"Half feral wolf, half dinosaur," Sam explained. "Some people think they might actually be of alien origin, but my dad never believed that."

" _Dinosaurs_ , Sam—“

" _Half_ dinosaur," Sam insisted stubbornly. "They're the size of a big dog. Nasty fangs and claws. They've been blamed for a lot of sheep and goat mutilations, eating family pets, stuff like that. And occasionally they— I don't know, it's like some of them _evolve_ more than others, and then they start attacking humans, and that's when you need to worry. Because they can leave their human victims alive but infect them with their venom, and then those people start acting feral too."

"What, like with rabies?" Ryan snorted a laugh. Yeah, he didn't believe it, that much was obvious. Fortunately, Sam had a lot of experience with that.

"Kind of, yeah. There's some kind of tree... shit, what was it?" Sam's brow furrowed as he raked his memory. "The balatá tree, that's it. Balatá sap is poison to them, which is good, because that means you can dip blades in it, or even crossbow arrows, and then kill them with that. Lots easier than trying to get in close and slit their throats while they're trying to chew your arm off, you know?"

"Sam." Ryan sat up and looked down at him in the dimness. "Shut up."

"Look Ryan, I just want to—“

"I _know_ what you're trying to do," Ryan interrupted, and brushed his fingertip over Sam's mouth, making him shiver. "But you can't protect me from everything, all right?" He went silent for a moment, tracing the curve of Sam's bottom lip. "I mean, unless you want to stay here."

_Fuck_. That... just hurt, like a sucker punch to the gut, and Sam was pretty sure his heart skipped a couple beats before catching up and slamming back into his ribs. "Yeah, you're right," he whispered, and pressed a kiss to Ryan's fingertip. "I can't protect you from everything." 

* * *

“...Why Montana?”

Sam shrugged, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jeans. “Dean got a tip. There have been some freaked-out reports of people witnessing the Wild Hunt outside Havre.” 

Ryan frowned, standing on the Evans' vast front lawn and looking up at his soon to be not-boyfriend. _Damn it_. “The Wild Hunt?”

“Yeah, the legend is there’s this string of ghostly appearances, usually hunters and horses,” Sam explained with a nod. “Sometimes even hunting dogs, too. It’s big in German traditions, old English cultures, Welsh, Norse... But then settlers brought it with them across the Atlantic. It was reported in eastern Washington in 1968, and central Iowa in 1932, and also there've been a whole host of unconfirmed sightings in earlier American history.” Sam looked disconcertingly earnest. “Usually it means a plague is coming to the town.”

Ryan blinked, taking that in. “A plague. Like, _plague_ plague? Rats and fleas and Ring Around the Rosie?” Surely Sam was joking, he figured.

Except, he was still having a tough time accepting just how rarely Sam made jokes. “It’s hard to know,” Sam admitted, staring down at the toes of his boots. “It’s definitely some kind of fatal epidemic, and yeah, probably a disease. But my dad’s notes said the victims’ bodies are usually so messed up by the time they’re found that Dean and I have been wondering if maybe it’s even something more biblical.”

“Biblical?” Ryan asked, thinking about how he’d tuned out of most of his years in Sunday School.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded. “One of _those_ plagues. You know, like, flaming hailstones destroying everything, or killer man-eating frogs falling from the sky.” 

“...Right.” Ryan sealed his lips together, biting back a few choice words. If only he could knock some sense into Sam... Well, he would have already done it by now. “Sam. That’s just stupid.”

Sam shrugged again, and met Ryan’s eyes. “Maybe, yeah. Or maybe Dean and I can save a few lives.”

“Right,” Ryan said with a sigh. “Because you’re the big damn heroes.”

Now it was Sam who frowned. “Yeah. Something like that.”

The silence stretched taut between them for long moments, thick and uncomfortable. Ryan had tried to talk Sam into staying. He’d brought up every plausible reason he could think of, as well as a whole bunch of less flattering arguments. But none of it – not the pleading or the anger or the fear – had made a dent, apparently. Sam was committed to leaving... and never returning. 

Ryan sighed, then pulled his cobalt blue newsboy cap off his head. He self-consciously combed his fingers through his hair, and then held out his hat. “Take this.” 

Sam looked at him like he was crazy. “What?” He grinned faintly and shook his head. “Ryan, you know I don’t wear hats.”

“Yes, I know,” Ryan said with a roll of his eyes. “And that's probably for the best. You don’t have to wear it. Just... just keep it,” he said quietly. “It’s my favorite.”

Slowly, Sam reached out and took the hat from Ryan, their fingers brushing together. “Oh,” he said after a moment. “Okay, thanks. I...” he dug into the pocket of his jacket for a moment, then held out his palm. “I have something for you, too.”

“Ohh, sweetie. You’re giving me jewelry?” Ryan teased, trying to force a brittle smile. He looped the supple leather cord around his finger, and then looked more closely at the ornate design of the pendant, a pentagram within a burning sun. “It looks just like your tattoo," he said in surprise, recalling the black-inked design just below Sam's collarbone. "I always figured that was a 'lick here' X-marks-the-spot kind of thing. Does this have some symbolic meaning or something?”

“Um. Sort of,” Sam answered, scratching the nape of his neck. “Actually, it’s to prevent demonic possession.”

“ _Sam_ —“

“I _know,_ all right?” Sam snapped, but there was more desperation than heat in his tone. “I know. Just... Just do me a favor and wear it.” He laid his hand lightly on Ryan’s shoulder, caressing his cheek in a way that made Ryan yearn. “I need to know that you will. All right?”

“All right,” Ryan whispered, unable to maintain his bravado anymore. He pulled the cord over his neck and slipped the pendant beneath his shirt. It lay flat against his chest, the metal still warm from the heat of Sam’s body. “I hate that you’re leaving.”

Now Sam’s hand tightened for an instant, and he pulled Ryan closer. “I know,” he whispered back, and slipped his arms around Ryan’s waist. “I hate it too.”

“Not enough, apparently,” Ryan murmured, feeling guilty even as he said it. But... “I’m so scared. So scared you’re going to get hurt and I’ll just... just never even hear about it.”

Sam touched his forehead to Ryan’s. “Do you _want_ to hear about it?”

“I don’t mean it like that,” Ryan answered, “and you know it.”

“Yeah. I know.” Sam brushed his lips over Ryan’s in a feather-light kiss. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

Ryan snorted in disbelief. “Yeah, I’m not even going to tell you what I think of that one,” he replied, and couldn’t help the echoing curve of his lips when Sam smiled faintly. “I think this is your cue.”

Those dreamy green eyes clouded with confusion. “My cue?” Sam asked.

“Absolutely,” Ryan murmured, and gestured with a flourish. “In the grand theater of my life. Sam Winchester, this is your cue to tell me that, even though you came to East High to save me, really I was the one who ended up saving you.” 

Now he was rewarded with one of Sam’s sparkling smiles, genuine and all too rare. “I’ll have to write that one down,” Sam teased back, pulling him close once more. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re right.”

Clutching at Sam’s jacket, Ryan stood on his toes and did his best to lose himself in Sam’s kiss, in the searching warmth of his lips and the safety of his embrace. He wanted to seal this moment in time, trapping it and savoring it, even if it meant they could never move beyond the now. He wanted that... but he’d bitch-slap anyone who had the nerve to point out the tears standing in his eyes when Sam pulled back.

Ryan swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and stepped away. Letting go. “You have my cell number. You know, if you need it,” he murmured after a long pause, once he felt more confident that his voice was under control. “And you’ve got a long drive ahead of you.”

“Yeah.” And maybe Sam didn’t look quite comfortable either, swallowing hard like he had something stuck in his throat. “We do.”

“Yeah, we do,” Dean called through the Impala’s open window. Privately, Ryan was impressed that Dean had managed to keep his trap shut all this time.

Sam gave him a ghost of a grin, so sad that Ryan would’ve sworn he could feel his heart cracking. Then he turned on his heel and jogged down the driveway, climbing into the shotgun seat. Dean stuck his head out the open window once more, and waved. “I’ll call you,” he yelled, and Ryan heard a very unladylike snort behind him.

“Like hell you will,” Sharpay called back, and Ryan glanced over his shoulder to see her smiling. Even though he could tell she’d made a wise decision in choosing waterproof mascara today. She sniffled once, and laid her arm across his shoulders. “Go bust some evil ass, Batman.”

Dean winked. “You know I will.” The Impala’s engine started with a rumble, then smoothed into a purr as Dean pulled out of the long driveway onto the street.

The Evans twins watched as the car disappeared around a corner, and then Sharpay tsked her disapproval. “Your favorite hat, Ry,” she murmured. “And it’s not even his color.”

Ryan lay his head to rest on her shoulder, breathing in deeply and searching for the calm center inside himself. “It is now,” he whispered, and turned to head into the house.

* * *

## [AND NOW: The completely sucker-pleasing AU ending.]

A flash of headlights played over him and Sam straightened from where he'd been leaning against the brick building. Then he surreptitiously brushed off his cashmere sportcoat, hoping he hadn't just blown his whole look by gathering dust. The car pulled to a stop in front of him and Sam climbed in, giving the driver an easy grin. 

"Thanks for picking me up," he said, buckling his seatbelt. "I appreciate it." 

"Sure, no problem." Zeke's return smile was wide and friendly as he put the car back into gear, then rolled out of the parking lot. 

But although Zeke seemed comfortable enough with him, the silence was... a little awkward. Blasting music might've been better, if only to cover up how completely they were both coming up empty on things to say. "Umm...." 

Sam looked over in question. "Hmm?" 

"Oh. Nothing," Zeke said, laughing a little. 

_Okay._ "So, ah," Sam began after another moment of silence, hoping he wasn't about to totally shove his foot in his mouth. "I didn't realize that you and Sharpay were – um, I mean, are – ahh..." 

“Oh yeah! No, we’re not,” Zeke explained, his tone of voice an oddly cheerful contrast to his words. “I mean, we’re not really. I really want to be, but Sharpay, she... Well, she... Yeah, no.” He shook his head, completely baffling Sam by still hanging onto that dazzling smile, which actually seemed pretty natural. 

“You’re... not.” 

“No.” Zeke shrugged and checked his mirrors before pulling onto the highway. “I’ve liked her for years, and she knows that. But Sharpay... she really goes for these older guys, you know?” He glanced aside at Sam, who restrained himself from saying that, yeah, he did know. “But I guess the Evans family is doing their big fancy family dinner thing tonight, and no way was she going to show up without a date when Ryan has one. So it’s just my lucky night.” His smile – if possible – widened. 

“I guess so,” Sam replied, unable to fault Zeke for his logic – illogic? – particularly not when he just looked so damn pleased about the whole situation. 

The silence was a bit easier to take after that, and Sam looked out his window to watch the lights of the city flash by. He idly wondered when he and Dean might make it back to Albuquerque for a case again. And then he firmly turned his mind away from that line of thought. Soon he'd lost himself in a daydream of Ryan flying out to meet up with him somewhere in Bumfuck East, Kentucky, and the two of them spending a week or so together in any motel boasting decent room service, and neither of them leaving the room in all that time, not even once. No ghosts – or siblings – invited. 

A smile was playing over his lips when Zeke spoke up, drawing him back into the moment. “Hey, um. Can I ask you a question?” 

Sam shrugged, a bit surprised but curious. “Sure. What?” 

“You and Ryan, you’re really...?” 

After a moment of waiting, Sam figured perhaps that was actually the end of Zeke’s question. “Really...? Yeah, I guess. Really.” 

“Oh.” Zeke’s brow furrowed, and Sam wondered just what-all was going on in that head of his, to have him so sobered up all of a sudden. “So, the two of you, do you...?” 

Smiling, Sam shook his head; Zeke was going to have to help him out this time. “Do we... what, exactly?” he asked, thinking it could be any of a thousand things. 

“Do you... you know.” Zeke swallowed and glanced over at Sam before pinning his eyes back on the road. “Do you two, you know, do the full-on buttsex thing?” 

Sam burst out laughing, grabbing the dashboard and dropping forward to lean against it. “Oh my God,” he drawled, still giggling himself silly. “That... that is a very personal question, Zeke,” he pointed out, trusting it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t in the least offended. 

Zeke gave him a sheepish grin, and shrugged. “Sorry. Just wondering.” 

“Sure, wondering’s fine,” Sam told him, still snickering but trying hard to breathe in spite of it. “You tell me, man. Do you and Sharpay do the full-on buttsex thing?” 

“What?” Zeke turned so sharply to look at him that he jerked the steering wheel to the right, cutting off another car at 70 miles per hour. “Wha— you—?“ he steadied the car and swallowed hard, then glanced at Sam in disbelief. “Why would we do that?” 

“Hey, lots of straight couples do that,” Sam pointed out, relaxing again after a moment, only once it seemed that they were no longer in imminent danger of getting greased liked an armadillo beneath a Mack truck. “Especially teenagers.” 

Zeke’s dark eyes looked as wide as saucers in the too-bright highway lights. “Why?” 

“Saves on condoms, for one thing. And girls can’t get pregnant that way.” Sam bit his tongue, thinking that it was kind of mean to be having so much fun at Zeke’s expense. But then, Zeke _had_ started it. “Plus, you know every guy really secretly wants to, anyway. Hell, that’s porn star sex!” 

“Yeah,” Zeke said, seemingly in spite of himself. “That’s true.” Then he stiffened, clearly remembering himself. “But no! No, Sharpay and I don’t do that.” 

“Yeah, not Ryan and me either,” Sam said genially, grinning again. 

“You don’t?” Amazingly, Zeke looked stunned _again_ , and Sam was really starting to wonder about the quality of his public school education. “But, then... I mean, what do you _do_?” 

Sam waited a beat, running a dozen salacious possibilities through his mind. But no, sadly he didn’t know Zeke quite well enough to go filling his head with all _that_ tonight. “Do you want me to get you a book, man?” he asked instead. “Because there are some great books out there.” 

“No. No!” Zeke answered immediately, prompting more laughter. He seemed to take it in kind, though, and relaxed enough to grin back at Sam again. 

* * *

After a brief explanation at the hotel's front desk – _yes, we’re really supposed to be here –_ the maitre d' ushered Sam and Zeke into a lushly-appointed cocktail lounge. There the Evans family was seated and waiting on upholstered wingback chairs, the four of them together looking as bright and golden as an advertisement for the good life. Ryan stood up and gave Sam a tentative smile, while Sharpay bounced out of her chair and rushed to throw her arms around Zeke. Mrs. Evans rose gracefully, her smile charming as usual, but the man who rose to stand beside her looked suffused and tense, as if one careless word might be the spark that set him off. His stiff glance raked over Sam, then moved on to Zeke. And he didn’t look any more comfortable. 

_Which kid are you happier with?_ Sam thought as he read the expression on Mr. Evans’s face. _The one in an interracial relationship, or the one in a homosexual relationship?_ By the look of things, Vance Evans was destined to have a lousy night, whatever he chose. 

“Daddy, this is Zeke Baylor. You remember Zeke, he’s on East High’s champion basketball team,” Sharpay gushed, nearly folding herself over Zeke’s arm. 

“Zeke, of course,” Mr. Evans replied, although not with the enthusiasm Sam might have expected, after Sharpay’s exuberant introduction. Instead, he looked like he was slowly being strangled by the classic Windsor knot of his necktie. “Good team last year, son,” he said after a moment. “Hope it’s as good this year.” 

“Yes.” To Sam’s eye, Zeke seemed near petrified with panic. “It— it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Evans,” he managed. Sharpay tugged him aside to coo at him some more, which clearly delighted Zeke, but had Mr. Evans’s face turning a dusky red. 

“Dad,” Ryan said, drawing the focus back, “this is Sam Winchester.” His eyes were clear, his chin up, and his spine straight, but his voice was hesitant in a way Sam had never heard before. 

“Sir.” Sam reached out, surprising Mr. Evans into automatically taking his hand, the cream of ingrained courtesy rising to the top for an instant. Sam shook his hand firmly, once, before Ryan’s father quickly drew back his arm. 

“Sam. Aren’t you...” Mr. Evans looked him up and down, and his expression grew even stiffer. “...Tall.” Dropping Sam from his attention, Vance turned to Ryan and reached out in what looked like a reflex: his hand hovered in the air by Ryan’s angled hat brim for a moment, but then he seemed to think better of it, instead turning away to take his wife’s arm. “Let’s eat,” he announced abruptly. 

The little group turned to follow the waiting server deeper into the hotel's luxe restaurant. Sam took Ryan’s hand in his and gave it a reassuring squeeze before falling back to tug gently on Zeke’s sleeve. “Hey,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “Which one of us do you think he hates more?” 

Zeke hid a snicker behind his hand. 

* * *

“Usually by the time Darbus holds her spring musical—“ 

“Musi _cale_ ,” Sharpay interrupted, and Zeke nodded. 

“Right. That show. Usually by then the baseball season is pretty much over. Unless we make it to the championships,” Zeke added, and grinned widely. “And really, we should. I mean, we made it last year to the final round for state championship, and I think our team this year is even better. More solid.” 

“What position do you play, Zeke?” Mrs. Evans asked, holding up her wineglass for the waiter to top off her Chardonnay. Sam shook his head when the waiter next paused by him, and whispered for a refill on his Coke. 

“Second base. And Chad Danforth plays shortstop, he’s amazing. You know Chad, right?” Zeke asked. “He’s a really good catcher, too.” 

“But if your team is really as good as you say, then you’ll have quite a dilemma to deal with,” Mrs. Evans pointed out, a teasing glint in her eye. “If you must play in the championship games, then you’ll miss Sharpay’s opening!” 

Ryan choked suddenly, ducking his head for a moment while he gasped for air, his cheeks turning bright red. Across the table, Sharpay scowled. 

“You all right?” Sam murmured, rubbing Ryan’s back. 

“Fine, yeah,” Ryan gasped. “Thanks.” His eye caught Sam’s, and Sam had to smother a snicker. 

“Uh. Yes, Ma’am,” Zeke said, nervously glancing towards Mr. Evans. “I’m sure I’ll work something out.” 

“Excellent,” Vance put in, although his tone of voice certainly didn’t _sound_ like it was excellent. “And for college? You’re considering Arizona State’s economics program, isn’t that right?” 

“Well. Kind of,” Zeke answered, and shrugged before smiling. “It’s my second choice. I’m actually waiting to hear about a fellowship at the National Culinary Institute in Seattle, for their Cordon Bleu program.” 

“Really.” Mr. Evans’s lips flattened into a thin line, and he stabbed his fork at a piece of bloody steak. 

“Sam wants to go to law school,” Ryan piped up, and Sam felt Mr. Evans’s gaze sharpen to laser-focus on him. 

“Really.” The disapproval lingered, unchanged. “What kind of law do you think you’ll end up practicing?” 

Sam sat up a bit straighter in his chair, knowing that his time to be grilled had arrived. He vowed to do Ryan proud; much as he could, anyway. “At this point, I expect it will be criminal law, sir.” 

“A seeker of truth and justice, hmm?” Ryan’s father snorted and signaled to a waiter with his empty scotch glass. “There’s not a lot of money in that. Corporate law is the field to focus on.” 

“I guess so,” Sam replied, thinking that corporate law sounded suspiciously like a kind of hell... and he already had a passing acquaintance with Hell. “I don’t know, I’m just afraid it would be really tedious, though,” he continued, catching the way Sharpay’s eyebrows rose, her glare steeling in warning. He ignored her. “And boring, dealing with the same repetitive contracts, day in and day out.” 

“It may be boring, yes,” Vance answered, his gaze heavy on Sam, “but entertainment is a luxury, son. It’s a privilege. Someday it won’t matter to you so much if you’re bored, so long as you know you’re able to support your family.” The rigid set of his shoulders relaxed a trifle, and a smile that had nothing at all to do with warmth crept onto his face. “Of course, here I am assuming things,” he chuckled. “I don’t know if you even intend to start a family.” 

“I really haven’t given it much thought, sir,” Sam answered, well aware of Ryan sitting tense and silent beside him. 

“Yes, that much is obvious.” Ryan’s father glared disapproval at them both, but before the conversation could descend further, Mrs. Evans leapt into the breach. 

“Pumpkin, did you see those Jimmy Choos that Melinda Wyatt was wearing the other night? Absolutely _darling_ ,” she exclaimed, stroking her fingers over the back of her husband’s hand. “I was thinking we should get you a pair in silver, with jet accents.” 

Sharpay answered enthusiastically, but Sam was already pretty used to tuning her out. Beneath the table, he clasped Ryan’s hand, lying cool and a little clammy on his thigh. “You doing okay?” he whispered, ducking down to make the question for Ryan’s ear only. 

“Uh-huh.” Ryan nodded, his eyes on his barely-touched veal parmigiana. 

“Liar,” Sam whispered, and he was rewarded with a wink of bright smile. “Get us out of here before ten, and I’ll blow you in the backseat.” 

Ryan’s cheeks flushed and Sam smothered a chuckle. He glanced up to find Mr. Evans’s burning glare fixed on him, as if he could incinerate Sam on the spot through pure will. 

“Dessert,” Vance announced, although his tone of voice made it sound like he was sentencing a criminal to execution. 

Their waiter stepped to Vance’s side to display the dessert cart, and Sam took advantage of the disruption to lean over and whisper to Zeke. “Man, I am totally winning. He can’t stand me _way_ more than he can’t stand you.” 

“Congratulations,” Zeke chuckled, “I think you might actually be right.” He shot a furtive glance at Sharpay, then grinned at Sam. “Thanks for that.” 

“Oh, sure. Anything I can do to help,” Sam retorted with a smile. 

The conversation lumbered awkwardly on, with Sharpay bubbling over with praise for Zeke— and praise for Zeke’s obvious adoration of herself. At least that was a subject on which Vance and Zeke could see eye to eye. Zeke himself seemed more and more overwhelmed by Sharpay’s surprisingly enamored display as the evening wore on, though happily so, if the flush rising on his cheeks was any indication. Mr. Evans heartily ignored Sam, who returned the favor by speaking only when directly spoken to. Mrs. Evans glittered and charmed everyone as usual, and Ryan was uncommonly quiet... Although Sam did catch him discreetly checking his watch more than once. 

Sam looked up in question when Ryan tugged quickly at his hand, then abruptly pushed his chair back. “Sam and I are expected somewhere,” Ryan explained in response to his family’s surprised looks, and Sam rose, following his lead. 

“Son,” Mr. Evans said, frowning. “Your mousse.” 

“Yes, sir,” Ryan answered after a beat, looking down at his plate, which was covered in rich chocolate and fork tine traintracks. “It was delicious. I can’t eat another bite.” He took Sam’s hand in his. “Thanks, Dad.” 

“Thanks,” Sam echoed, and added a smile for Ryan’s mother. “It was lovely. Thank you very much for including me.” 

“But of course, Sam,” Mrs. Evans insisted, sending him a wink. “You know we think of you as family now.” 

Perhaps that was misguided emphasis on the _we,_ as Vance looked less than thrilled by her declaration, but Ryan was already pulling Sam away from the table. 

The air outside the hotel was fragrant with early spring orange blossoms, and Sam raised an eyebrow as Ryan handed his ticket to the valet. “Not that I mind,” Sam murmured, dipping his head for a kiss. Ryan’s lips were warm and inviting, and his mouth held a seductive trace of chocolate. “...But what just happened?” 

Pulling back, Ryan looked up at him in mock seriousness, glancing aside only to tip the valet. Then Ryan checked his watch again. “It’s 9:58,” he announced, and smirked in a way that made lust rush through Sam’s blood. “You’re about to be really busy.”

  
_END._


End file.
